


walk the plank, eyes wide open

by klexenia



Category: One Piece
Genre: (a story in six parts), (duh), Ace is Dead and it's Still Too Soon, Action/Adventure, Canon Character Cameos - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Drama, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Multi, Slow Burn, Spirit Shenanigans, The Meaning of Life, Viva La Revolution, author drunk on melancholy, dubious sense of humor, dubious writing style, feat. so many 'I see dead people' tropes, mild novel a spoilers, mild-ish descriptions of gore/blood, morality musings, spirit spirit devil fruit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-06-17 15:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15464688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klexenia/pseuds/klexenia
Summary: Death meets girl, boy meets death. The end. The beginning.or: Portgas D. Ace discovers dying isn’t the end of the line, yet — unfortunately, now he’s in dire need of a spirit guide. All Lana wanted was everythingbutto be dragged off on some quest she’s got no interest in.or: People die. But this is not the story of their death - this is about things left behind.





	1. PART I (If you don’t like the peaches, don’t shake the tree)

 

**walk the plank, eyes wide open**

_(wear this necklace of rope, my friend, and never think about dying, — or: a requiem)_

  

This is the end of the story: Wide eyes stare into nothingness, a smile frozen in place. Cries of victory and despair mingle, rise and fall, and ricochet back and forth between cold stone and tired, battle-worn bodies. Beyond, the open sky stretches to infinity, and waves whisper, nabbing fitfully at the shorelines.

That's how the story ends, they say, and remind you: Everybody dies. They advise you, _insist_ , to make it count. Dress up a little; you only meet death once. Normally.

People are silly like that; this is not a story about death.

Mostly.

—

It goes like this: Boy meets girl; girl meets boy. Stuff happens – battles and bruises, glares and glances, hellos and hell-nos – cause and effect; you know the drill.

Except, they never met; not according to anyone with eyes in their skulls and a bit of common sense, because the boy had died in the wake of a widely broadcasted battle, half the world away — at a time when the girl had never even left the sea she was born in. There would be no sighting of a child with sky in her hair, hovering head over heels, tongue-in-cheek, high above a battlefield. A marine with a repeatedly patched-up uniform, a fool, leaves the career of a lifetime for some fever hallucinations. Nobody even knows of the Architect before he disappears. And the papers know better than to speculate freely about the fire in the hands of the girl, or dare print the whispered and awfully pompous names they give her, nevermind the events that seem to be unfolding in her wake – coincidences, the lot of them.

The dead need to stay dead, and keep silent. _Airtalker_ , that's all she is; for who addresses empty air as if it would respond?

So maybe it's like this: Death meets girl, boy meets death.

The end.

The beginning.

—

 **PART I** ( _If you don't like the peaches, don't shake the tree_ )

—

Sunshine fills the air on a small island in South Blue. Leaves rustle, birds bicker, and off in the little village, people go about their business. It's peaceful, here, and small-minded, and a cause of great yawning for anyone bored enough to go out of their way and stop by. Nothing ever happens.

A girl runs through the forest, a sprint, a jump – she does this on her off days, all day long, her short and curly hair bouncing to the beat of her feet. Ways off, a child plucks some juicy red berries, opens her mouth, swallows. And to the west, a ship parts the waves, on board three passengers – or maybe just one, depending on who you ask.

Nothing ever happens here, they say.

—

(In the morning, almost midday, tankards and glasses slip off a tray, crashing to the tavern's kitchen floor in an explosion of a million shards. Someone died, a kid, a poisonous herb; that's what her big and kind boss tells her. The girl with the curly hair and empty hands pales, because there had been a leaden chill in the air a few hours ago; because she's afraid the past three years of peace is all she's going to get.

She'll be right.)

—

There might be someone dead out there, so ten minutes ago, _this_ seemed like the most reasonable and wisest course of action. That said, –

"What the–" Her boss blinks down at her, still gripping the door handle. "Are, are you hiding in the broom closet?"

She retreats a little more into the narrow space, "… maybe?"

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

The irony is choking her. "Right. _Wouldn't that be weird?!"_ Outside in the kitchen, some lone shards of glass still hide, glimmering in the corners.

—

The inevitable follows:

"Tell me a story?" the child asks. Her eyes are red-rimmed, legs kicking back and forth as they sit on the stone bench overlooking the quaint cemetery. She died – yesterday, or the day before that? (A kid, a poisonous herb. The math is simple.) It doesn't matter though, when the child is still here. "Tell me why you see ghosts."

"No," the girl with the curly hair says. Her sleeve is soaked with child's tears, for what kid watches their own funeral and doesn't lose a piece of themselves? A storm had been brewing, called by its ghostly cries of anguish, and the only self-preserving thing to do was to pick the kid up and endure the hiccups.

"Pleeeeease, Lana?" Heaven knows how the child knows her name, since Lana won't - can't - remember hers in return. (It's Remi, the child will tell her repeatedly, _R-e-m-i_ ; you're not very good with names, are you? Her hair has caught the blue sky and tamed it into two pigtails. _Pigtails,_ Lana decides to call her.)

She sighs. "Will it help you move on?"

"Maybe?"

Lana watches the child's mother caress the flower petals on the fresh and much too small grave with shaking fingers and seek the hands of the father. Calla Lillies, Pigtails said, flowers for funerals, as well as marriages. They were also poisonous. _Nice,_ Lana commented, and tried not to think of the last grave she'd seen.

"There once was a foolish little girl," she says. "She snuck in her parent's merchandise and took a bite of something that would be the most disgusting fruit she had ever tasted. She'd regret it all her life. Stuff happened. The end."

Pigtails pouts, a shadow flitting across her face. "You're horrible at this."

A blackbird settles on a withered tombstone and joins the scolding. Lana rubs the faintly aching scar at the base of her throat.

"Tough," she says.

—

(Faded scenes of sun-kissed orchards fill the recesses of her mind. It's a jumbled, beautiful mess: Voices haggling over the most exotic breed of fruit are ringing in the sweet, heavy evening air, hailing the harvest. She still sees streets, lined with colorful stalls under clay tiled roofs – building blocks of a golden city that listens to the playful sound of marbles clinking against each other. There's laughter drowning out the soft impact of a falling fruit, cut off the branch by the rapidly improving throwing aim of a little sister – she had been getting better with the boomerang each passing day. Lana remembers the ever present streak of dirt on her mother's dark bronzen cheek, kissed away by her father's bearded smile, and she remembers tiptoeing into the storage with her brother, both of them giggling, to admire their latest merchandise: A fruit, so swirly and beautiful, and the taste so _foul_. Forcing the bite down anyway, gagging, laughing, the incident soon forgotten.

The future is bright.

Then there's also this: A hand closing around her neck, _bring me back, you can see and touch me, I know you know how._ No air to breathe, tears spilling over cheeks, a knife against her bobbing throat and her legs kicking in the air uselessly, marbles still clutched in her fist, and: The dawning realization that nobody would be able to save her from something they couldn't see. Something slamming into her, wrenching her from the ghost's grasp, his knife slipping. Worn-down cobblestone just beyond her nose; hot, scarlet liquid slowly dripping down the cotton of her dress.

The air so sweet and heavy. The sound of marbles tumbling down tiles.)

—

"… hey, what did the girl eat?"

"A devil fruit. Now how about you take that ferry across the river already?"

"You're mean. Is this because you're alone all the time? It is, right? Cuz I've got an idea! In stories, ghosts always stick around because they still have things to do, right? And you're lonely ("I'm not!"), so I should stay with you! I'll be like– like your guardian angel!"

"Oh no, don't you dare– what are you doing? _stop it_ – mouldy hell, no, _go away–!"_

(It's like this: Death meets girl, again and again. It's that simple, and that inescapable, for someone who can see, hear and touch the dead-but-not-departed with the power granted by the sea devil. There's nothing tragic about it: It just is. Or should be. Mostly. Ghosts have better things to do than bothering with some no-named girl.

Normally.)

—

Children have a short attention span – hold on, no, that's not quite right; they positively excel at keeping themselves busy. But, imagine: A child who does not need sleep and cannot consciously touch a single thing – who cannot be heard no matter how hoarse they scream their voices, cannot show off their creations, nor tug at someone's sleeve and hold their hand – in short; cannot pick up a pebble, nevermind hope to accomplish anything with it but watch it phase through their fingers.

Imagine this, too, then: A girl with an innate talent for indifference and years of drilled-in self-interest, harboring a deep desire for everyone to just please _mind their own rotten business_ , who would rather climb the nearest ten-foot wall with her bare hands before engaging – as well as embodying, unfortunately, the only person not affected by any of the child's aforementioned difficulties, the only one solid to spirits and vise versa.

… what a match.

—

"Are you awake yet?" Pause. "What about now? …. Now? … aaaaaand now?"

A groan. "Gerroff. 'm sleeping."

"No you're not. You're talking to me!"

"'talking in my sleep."

"But you didn't talk until now!"

"Go'way."

"But I'm _bored_."

"Don' care." Silence. "Stop trying to _**blow into my ear!**_ "

— The morning dawns with the kid sitting on her. Of course Lana is denied a satisfying, audible _thump_ of the kid's body hitting the floor after shoving her off. _Then_ she endures several comments about her chopped hair, a lecture on names and on the kid's life story as a gardener's daughter, all of which Lana won't remember. Little later, downstairs, she gets called out by her very concerned boss, who asks her if she's trying to spoil the milk by death glare.

She can't very well say: There's a kid in the middle of the kitchen table, who is marveling down at her chest, a chest that is sticking out of the table top – the jug of milk is hidden in her rib cage, firmly out of Lana's grasp. Instead, she says: "It's nothing."

The girl blinks up at her. "Did you know the milk is different when the cow eats some specific herbs? It's–"

Lana survives the morning. She sets up rules. She summarizes: "No distracting me when there's living, breathing people around. No talk. No touch. _No being in the mildewed way._ " She actually has hope to succeed for exactly four minutes, before getting a very earnest lecture on the exact shape and color of the herbs a cow must eat to give _the best_ milk. (Those herbs grow in higher altitudes, Lana is told, but she doesn't comment on the lack of the island's mountain-y geography. Lana would need to listen, first.) She runs her errands with small hands tugging at her shirt, and a resigned curse on her tongue.

"Listen," her boss had said, among other things almost drowned out by a rambling kid, "A trader came– ah, you know what, I'm gonna have a look at it myself."

She stops paying attention to long talks, to things that might stand out. When she thoughtlessly passes a young man on the street, shirtless and with a penchant for orange-red accessories, shadowless and with searching eyes, she doesn't blink and wonder.

(Had she paid attention; would it have gone differently?

If she had been more attentive in the past, she might never even have ended up here. Other times in the future, it might've made things easier. The truth is, however: People's actions do not always depend on each other. Most times, the butterfly will bat its wings, and not a single leaf will be moved by a breeze.)

—

This is how it happens, later: They're outside, she's serving drinks on the patio and, skipping after her with flying pigtails, the child spots him.

"Lana, look! He's naked!"

Lana _looks_ , and immediately wants to melt into the ground. Not because he might be good looking (he is, but she's had her share of bare chested, muscled men – oh, get your head out of the gutter, not like _that_ ), but because– Her fingers grasp at empty air and Lana stumbles to the side, stones in her stomach–

" _Really?_ She's right over there, with that pretty skin – she's pretty, right?", the kid prattles, "I think so. She can be really mean sometimes, and her hair is a little weird –"

His voice is laced with amusement. "A friend of mine has hair like a pineapple, you should see him–"

"What's a pine-apple? Is it a plant? Can it do anything useful?"

"Uhm. It … uh, tastes good?"

Lana's heart races and she squeezes her eyes shut, because–

"Lana, look!"

Her stumbling flight is stopped by the burning hand on her wrist, a hand that– " _I can touch you!"_

The kid squeals in response. "We can! Awesome, right?"

He tugs her around. "So you can hear me too, right?"

Lana opens her eyes to a burning, curious stare, to the sun beating down on her and the glaring color of a ridiculous cowboy-hat.

His feet are touching the floor, but the light leaves no shadow.

—

(Boy meets girl. Somehow, that's how it goes, doesn't it?)

—

"What do you want?"

He blinks. He bows and lifts his hand. If he makes a move to kiss her knuckles, she swears they're going to _kiss_ his–

He grasps his hat and lifts it. "Pleased to meet you, I'm … Ace, and in need of your- well, your help." The hat is crammed back on his shaggy black hair and he looks at her expectantly, beaming.

She stares back, non-plussed. "I'm I-Don't-Care, sometimes known as Not-Happening."

His left eye twitches. "You don't even know what I was going to ask."

"Doesn't matter," she says, turns, and catches herself almost reaching for the kid — Pigtails, who looks at her like– "Ghosts always want things I can't give," she licks her lips, suddenly parched, "Don't _ever_ tell them about me again."

—

(If he's honest: He expected a little … _more_.

As for her, don't bother: She never expects much of anything, these days.)

—

Granted, it wasn't a terrible first impression– there are worse, to say the least. Nobody nose-dived or killed a comrade, threatened death, over-shared some embarrassingly personal details, introduced the entirety of a lovely greeting cake to a face— She looks over her shoulder and has two sets of eyes blinking back at her. The cowboy winks, charming smile glued in place and _are those freckles_ —but if there weren't so many oblivious people around, eyeing her skittish moves, she'd have no problems substituting the cake for the bottled sake on her tray.

"Yo," he says, lifting his hand.

 _Ignore them,_ her mind chants, _and they'll go away eventually._

He yawns and wonders about the nature of the fear in her eyes. Must be him, he concludes.

(Don't blame him: A lot of things did happen just because of him. His name is revered, whispered among all seas – whether he likes it or not, or how much he now sometimes yearns to shut them up. Not usually, mind you; you don't become a world-feared pirate with a _five hundred fifty million bounty_ if you didn't _mean_ to.

This is different, but he can't know it's possible for someone to skip classes on what they call common knowledge.)

—

Her boss corners her eventually.

"I guess yesterday was a tough day for you, but– " He hesitates. "I remembered I promised that nothing ever– you didn't even know her, but – you've been so jumpy and keep looking around, is everything alright?"

She feels their stares drilling into her skin. The kid tugs at her arm and Lana forces herself to breathe.

"I'm dealing with it."

(This is how it goes: Death meets girl, and won't be turned away. She doesn't have to like it, nobody asked her; but since nobody ever bothered to _answer_ either … well – she shall always first try her damndest to escape and avoid until there's no other way.

Her curiosity died a long time ago, on a cobbled street polished from use.)

—

The afternoon sun burns low, unapologetic. The voices of the patrons float around the corner of the tavern, where Lana crosses her arms and glares. Between them, the kid sits cross-legged and attentive, picking at grass that won't cooperate and be picked at.

"Alright," Lana goes – it seems the sooner she gets it over with, the sooner she will be left alone. "What do you need help with."

The cowboy lights up like a kid on his birthday. "Finally!" He taps his left arm, marked by dark letters. "Okay! Okay. I'm looking for my brother. You can see why that's a bit hard – I can't ask around like I used to, but I thought he was a ghost, so it wasn't like it mattered. I lost him when we were kids. But I thought about it and there's a high chance he's not —dead, I mean— so." He moves to clap her upper arm, and she blocks him.

"Your point?"

He huffs. "Obviously, I need someone to play … what's the word? Medium? Shouldn't be too much of a problem to find him this way, at this point I'm pretty sure he can only be somewhere on the Grand Line and–"

"Hold on." Lana edges back and raises a hand. Then adds her other for good measure. "Let me– you want me to find a guy who could be either dead _or_ alive," she takes a breath, "a kid _or_ an adult with unknown features, possibly name? On the _mildewed Grand Line_ where you're, loh behold, _guessing_ he is?!"

He shrugs. "Pretty much, yeah."

The kid jumps up. "I heard a lot of people die there! Can we go?"

There's some gaping on Lana's part. Then she announces: "That's the most moronic and time-wasting thing I've ever heard of. No."

"Oh, come on! I've worked with less. Please?" He smiles winningly at her. She could cut _stone_ on that condescending edge. "Don't tell me you're scared."

"Damn right," she scoffs under her breath and runs her fingers through her hair. Evidently, he's one of _those_ types. " _Death_ equals _dead people_ equals _ghosts_ , you moron. And I'm going to stay far, far–"

She spots the new ghost the moment he turns the corner to join them, and somehow, _she knows_. She knows even before the _other part_ shuffles after him into view. Her skin crawls, up from her sweating hands and down her back, and between one inhale and the next–

"Hello."

— _Fear_ is ice dripping into veins, shivering hands, rattled breathing. Fear is the glow surrounding their every visage. Fear is the words, _I was looking for you_ and _I'm positive you won't deny_ my _proposition._ Fear is an empty, haunted gaze and the disheveled, neglected shell of a living being hovering behind the dead in a gruesome twist of the natural order, following his wishes like a puppet on strings.

Fear is the familiar demand in different clothing, from a different mouth:

"Since you have the ability to converse with us, I wager you know a way of revival, am I correct?"

—

(This is what happened: The new arrival was dead. His companion was not, but looked like it anyways. More, if spoken honestly – let's not beat around the bush. The ghost introduced himself as Jean, then his companion as his brother Pierre; not that their names are of any importance.

What matters is: Once, there was a storm waging around their quaint trading vessel. One lived, and one died, resentment keeping him. It's the old tale: How could he let go, if this spineless, easily-influenced old idiot survived? He was younger, stronger, and had taken the reigns years ago. He deserved to live. Then, the divine sign: He met another ghost, in need of a passage, looking for a girl who could do the impossible.)

—

She takes several long inhales. The cowboy stands frozen, his fist opens and closes. " _What?"_ he bristles.

"Can you do that, Lana?" Pigtails asks, eyes huge.

The ghost goes on, undeterred, "I'm sure with a proper life-sacrifice …? See, I've thought a great deal about this. Exchanging our souls shouldn't be a problem. Even if I'd be stuck in such a pitiful—"

"No way, you _asshole–"_

Ten years ago, ghostly fingers closed around her windpipe and held a dagger to it for good measure. Ten years ago, her world tilted, slipped down a path far past the _warning: cliff edge_. Ten years ago, she was eleven years old.

She is not eleven anymore. "I'm terribly sorry, but unable to help you," she tells the guy who wears cargo-pants and a matching friendly sneer. This time, she doesn't stop her arm from pulling the open-mouthed kid behind her, offering her other hand to him. "Good day."

… It goes as well as you'd expect.

" _I know I can touch you, so believe me, you either do what I tell you to or else–"_

This, though, might come as a surprise:

She steps up to him, smiles. (It's bitter, and baleful, but nobody needs to know)

She responds: " _Go to hell."_

She rams her knee into his midsection, grabs his head, and breaks his neck.

—

(It's where you point out the obvious: You can't kill a ghost. They're, well, already dead. See, though, there's a difference between _damaged_ and _dead_. The dead part is already done, base-line, no take-backs. But that soul of yours, the spirit of it, it remembers how its body worked – damage is ingrained into your very being. All it needs is some time to repair – a little depending on your spirit shape but mostly on how much of a mess you've made; if bones should be in shambles, appendages hacked off, the insides been given a good stir.

Pain means you're alive? _Ha._

Even if you're dead, dying still smarts like a bitch.)

—

"Hey, Miss!" the patrons call from the patio, "Wait– _stop!_ Where's Mr. Trader? He went around that corner a while ago–"

Lana runs past them and away, feet hammering on the ground, her heartbeat echoing in her ears, trying not to think about this: There's nowhere to run.

("If you don't get away from him while you can, you'll die." That brother of jerkface-the-ghost won't heed her warning, not while he's blinking away the haze of being taken over and under the influence of jerkface, but at least she tried, right?

She tried.)

It's not the panting kid pleading for her to slow down that make Lana's feet screech to a sudden and dusty halt, nor a need to catch her breath. It's a dead cowboy, perching on a roof above like an overgrown orange rooster and crowing. "I admit, that was impressive. Up until you ran with your tail between your legs." He jumps and lands in front of her with practiced ease, and there's his shit-eating grin and pretentious, chiseled chest and _what do you know, more jewelry_ , and —she _snaps_.

"How did you know about me!? _You mildewed piece of blight-infested rot brought him here, who else is–"_

And he has the nerve to lift his hands, and- "Calm down, lady! I'm sorry he turned out to be such an asshole, he just gave me a lift, I thought he had some questions! I promise I didn't mean to–"

" _Who. Else. Knows!"_

He throws up his hands. "I don't know! I haven't even talked to anyone else about you! The dead ossan who told me where you were, he might've spread the news more, maybe? Said he came from here!"

Black spots dance at the edges of her vision and her knees decide it's a good time to go weak. Lana lets go of Pigtails hand. "Oh _Fey_ ," Her voice is hollow. "If that chatterbox is going around telling, who knows– I'm not–can't–"

Pigtails tugs at her. "Who?"

—

—("This island is peaceful", the old man tells her, and takes a drag out of a pipe that will never exhaust, now. "Nothing ever happens here." There's a patient twinkling in his old eyes, but Lana sees him looking out at the ocean behind her, a hunger there that she can't understand. She's tired, and hollow, and all she wants is to be left in peace.

"No deaths with attachments?" she presses.

"No deaths except the old," he confirms, patting her shoulder, his hands gnarled from years under the sun and buried in the earth. "Rare visitors. Not worth the effort, you see."

He leaves on the trading vessel she came with, phasing through shuddering sailors, eyes fixed on the horizon.)—

—

A crash echoes on the streets, the sound bouncing back and worth, building up a delighted crescendo and unwilling to ebb away.

The cowboy tilts his head. "I _think_ that was the lovely patio of your tavern. Shame." They hear confused shouts, a scream, someone howling in pain– "Aaand that would be the unsuspecting people enjoying a drink. Pardon, _were_ enjoying."

Lana's teeth chatter. He regards her, waiting, and she stares at his crossed arms, the bold letters on his left swimming before her eyes.

"What's going on?" the kid asks, grips her hand. "Lana?"

"Nothing much," he tells her, "Your lady just sicced someone with, say, _violent thoughts_ on your tavern. By not sticking around to deal with him."

Lana wants to punch him. She wants him to go away. (She wants to throw up.)

"Lana?"

"Oh, shut up!" she snaps at the kid, who recoils and drops her hand. "I need– I need to–"

"Fight," he offers, tipping his hat. "You can, right? So you should."

And he smiles, smiles with such a rotten, patronizing quirk of his lips, as if he'd know a mildewed blight about– She rakes her fingers through her hair, whirls around, "Oh yeah? _And you think he'll be so kind and stay down?!"_ Oh, she's, she's– Another crash, muffled, accompanied by the bright tinkling of breaking glass.

He watches her. "Time's running out."

Time is long gone, Lana thinks, time has never started up again– not for her, and especially not for _him_ – Her eyes widen. This cowboy-guy, right here, he's also a ghost. He, too, will get back up no matter what.

"You," she points, "You'll help."

The cowboy's grin widens. "Sure. I'll help you, if!" he raises a finger, "You help me find _my_ brother."

Lana growls. "You brought him here– go clean up your own rotten mess–"

" _Our_ mess," he corrects, cocks his head in thought. "… I think. Doesn't matter! You're in, or you're out."

Behind her, her shelter of three years is being wrecked – the home and life-work of a man who welcomed her with open arms and promises of _nothing ever happens_. What _choice_ does Lana have? (How would she even get away from this place?) She chokes. She breathes. "Fine," she spits.

He whoops. "We have a deal! Good, I really wanted to beat him up."

Distantly, she considers offering him therapy. A laugh, delirious and strangled, dies before it can reach her mouth.

—

(Was it stupid, agreeing? Maybe. Certainly worthy of regret. She had the same affinity for small-talk as a pine tree growing far up on a barren, frozen hill – and he had no plan besides blazing through towns and "asking around". But, see, you can't hide from the world forever – _especially_ if it's hell-bent on finding you.

He would know.)

—

"Pigtails," she says, crouching and trying for a smile. It slips from her like swirling leaves on a stormy autumn afternoon. "Remember the rules?"

"Don't talk. Don't be in the way," the kid whispers.

"Yeah. Stay here, alright? Stay out of it."

(She follows them, always. Lana doesn't know why she bothers.)

—

The patio is a glorified heap of timber, the last parts of the once merry bat-wing doors cling desperately to their last hinge. If he had time for it, the burly, kind-hearted barman would sob, but he's busy wrestling a half-dried wisp of a man. And if he had time for it, he might feel embarrassed, because while he himself looks a like mirror of his trampled, broken, wrecked furniture, the man he's fighting is not even breaking a sweat, despite his weak appearance.

The barman doesn't –can't– see the the ghost sitting idly on top of the bar, legs crossed and wrinkling his nose at the chair leg sailing through his chest. He doesn't hear him laugh and call, "Now, Pierre, don't break any bones, you'd be useless!"

He _does_ hear the encouraging shouts of his patrons, and he hears: " _Hey, you piece of rotten mold! It's me you wanted, right?"_

And he _does_ see, after the grip of the man goes slack and he almost lands a hit before the voice registers, and he whips around, his heart in his throat, _because what is she thinking–_

The sun is setting, and her face is shrouded in shadows. "Come and get me."

—

(What made her come back, really, overriding what you'd call "common decency" could not: The barman's name was Jet. He had a build that eclipsed the sun whenever he'd enter a room, large, warm hands, and was, fortunately, in possession of a nice, short, memorable name on top of an open spot for waitress. It didn't matter that he had never needed help before a girl with chopped, curly hair and weary eyes collapsed on his barstool, only asking for a place to stay and a curious need for assurance that _nobody at this place dies before their time_.

Nothing ever happens here, he promised.)

—

"You take the dead one," she instructs, "I take the Brother."

The cowboy cracks his knuckles. "Sure, but you do know we need to come up with something else, right?" He shrugs. "As much as I will love kicking his ass, infinite healing drags things out a little … Infinitely."

"No shit, Captain Obvious." She pretends her hands aren't shaking. It was _his_ rotten idea in the first place, to fight.

He turns his eyes heavenward. "How do we make him stop?" _She doesn't mouldy_ know, _does he think she would be here if she–_ "Have you met someone who could do that, this …" His hand makes a vague notion to the open doorway of the tavern, several feet above the ground and crowded with splintered wood, just as the brothers appear in it.

Ha! Has she met someone like it before! Her fingers clench. She watches him clambering down, slipping, under the annoyed eyes of his dead kin. Pigtails is hiding in that timber. "It's – I call it a _takeover_. The ghost takes over the mind of peo– a person. Controls them like an extension of themselves. And I don't know how or why it works–" she adds, with an edge, " _Since I try to stay away from ghosts."_

He has the decency to look slightly sorry. For about two seconds. Then he lifts a shoulder and asks: "So, how did your last 'takeover' work out?"

Here, in the middle of the beaten-down, dusty street, dusk on the horizon, he looks right at home. It's silent, a tumbleweed gently floats past them. She could swear there's a harmonica playing in the distance.

They come closer. Air leaves her lungs. "It didn't."

(This is how it went, years ago: Death meets girl, glances past to her sister, and takes her stupid, smart, self-sacrificing brother. It doesn't exactly _stop_ there. There's a story to it, sad and complicated in it's own way, and this is not the time to untangle the threads. What matters is this: Death took her dream with him.

What are you, without someone to be?)

—

Consider: The power of spirits, as passed down in stories. After all, those must've come from _something_. What if the sudden chill on a summer's day, the whispers in empty corners, the scraping of chairs by invisible hands, the man struck by insanity – what if it was more than just the mind playing tricks, or ill-advised wishful thinking? Or: Why does it always seem to rain when things take a turn for the tragic?

See, the concept, as far Lana knows, is this: Ghosts are dead people, held back by varyingly significant regrets, doomed to stalk the living until whatever issue they have is resolved. That should be it. Normally. They shouldn't be able to make a dent in the living, physical world.

Mostly.

(The day before, a small girl had called forth a storm, the air growing heavy and charged, pulled in by deep-rattling despair. Earlier, a collective shudder seized the passers-by, while a young man made his way right through their bodies, another pushed and laughed when they jumped at the door closing on its own.

Many of these blasted ghosts somehow meddle in the physical world. There's probably a million different reasons why each of them can do what they do, but Lana never wanted to know. Never needed to. They are as physically real to her as any other living person, so what's the point, when it makes no difference to her? At least, that's how it used to be.)

—

She steps forward: "Listen – John, Luke, whatever–"

The ghost stops smiling. "It's Jean."

"Close enough." She nods. "The thing is, I don't know a blight about bringing the dead back. There ain't a way. You died. Deal with it."

(He doesn't believe her. They never do.)

Instead, this happens: He attacks, and she's ready for it, wide stance and all – his fist closing in, faster that she thought – he catches fire, howls, and her kick sends him crashing to the ground, rips bruised if not broken. She blinks and stares at the fading flames and scorch marks, turns her head, and there he is: The cowboy, his shoulders and arms covered in flames.

She blinks again. "You're, err–" _On fire_ goes unspoken.

"Handy, right?" He laughs and turns his fingers into merrily dancing flickers. "Did you know you get to keep your devil fruit power in the afterlife? Makes life easy." He frowns at the phrase, belatedly. "Err."

Joy, he's the _gloating_ type. She sees the ghost –uh, Jason?– moving, and there is another presence behind her – ducking out of the way of a fist, she grabs the arm and then his brother is sailing over her shoulder, straight through Sparky-pants perplexed face.

"Hey!" he complains. "Don't–"

She barely catches Jim's (?) foot with her hands, twisting it, kicking his legs out from under him. "Focus, Firefly!" They are getting back up, fast, strong, and her hands and legs are stinging –when was the last time she fought like this, hand-to-hand, blow-to-blow?– and they will get back up, again and again –they are untrained, but still strong, how?– if Lana doesn't inflict more damage.

She jabs her finger at him. "Don't just stand there! Get to it, Firefly!"

"I would," he huffs, "But someone just threw a guy through me, _and_ called me Firefly – I resent that, by the way–"

" _I don't bloody care, Sparks!"_

" _How_ is that any better!? I have a name, you know!"

And she's blocking and kicking, and Jaiden-or-something thinks it's a good time to cock his head, "What are you trying to accomplish? Especially you, Mr. Portgas, I thought we were comrades–"

Sparks snarls. "Nobody who treats his brother like that is worth shit, you– taking care of him _my ass_ –"

"Oh, don't be naive." His eyes glint. "I expected more of a _pirate_."

Suddenly he's charging at her, right through the brother she was fighting and the next second she hits the dirt, chokes back a gasp. Her left shoulder protests vigorously –and she should've handled that blow, it's _nothing_ compared to what she had to take, back in– and he's hovering above her, sneering–

A large blast from the side, a fireball the shape of a fist right past her nose, sends him sailing through the air. "You're welcome!" the cowboy's voice hollers from the distance.

Lana jumps to her feet, panting, "It's your rotten job, you–" and tries to assess the damage to her shoulder, catches sight of black, charred fabric– " _You singed my shirt!"_ Of course it figures that Sparks' powers affect her just like any other rotten thing about ghosts.

"My bad!" Sparks calls cheerfully. "Eyes on the prize!"

She barely blocks the brother's punch in time.

—

Lana breaks his ribs, he doesn't scream. She breaks his nose, and he doesn't even blink. She tosses him to the ground and flips him through the air when something soars above her head– He sails right through brightly-lit Sparky-pants, who winces and instead of landing a punch, gets hit by his opponent instead. Both of the ghosts crash to the ground and Lana hears Sparks squawk, "Stop tossing people through my face!"

"My bad!" she yells back and barely avoids incapacitation from both sides when both of the brother close in – just as red-hot flames shoot past her and careen into Josh, rocketing him away and also resetting the seam of her shirt on fire.

"Are you _trying_ to burn me to a goddamn crisp?" She tosses the brother over her hip, quenching the flames, and no pained sound escapes him, _and she doesn't get it._ "You rotten– are you listening to me?"

Sparks mumbles, "He should be going _farther_. It's always the same distance."

Lana throws up her hands. "Fan-mouldy-tastic! Ladies and Gentlemen, It's spirit-long-throw!" she bites out, blocking a punch. She grits her teeth at her smarting shoulder, and rams her knee into the brother's gut and wrestles him to the ground – he should be howling in pain, _why isn't he in pain_ –

She meets his eyes, then, over his crooked and swollen nose, and she gasps. Her next action is reflex: A jab to his temples, and his body sacks to the ground with a weak _thud_.

—

—(Let's hear a little story: When Jean turned ten, he was allowed to accompany his father and Pierre for the first time. He'd been out to sea before, but never this long, never this far; it was a momentous occasion, and Pierre had to tell him to grab a rope four times before he could tear his eyes away from the way their home island disappeared beyond the horizon. Pierre had laughed, then, tousled his hair –something he knew his little brother hated– and told him to watch out for the waves and changes in the sky. Pierre remembers how Jean had piped, "I always pay better attention than you anyways!" with all the indignation his freshly-ten-year-old voice could muster. It was true, he did; always eager to jump to their father's hand, always the first up the rigging, the first to spot the right cloud in the wrong place. But Pierre saw how the light in Jean's eyes grew dimmer and colder each time father turned to Pierre instead, consulting only him, even though Jean's ideas were bolder, sharper. That would be their father's legacy: Pierre trying to bridge the gap to his little brother, struggling with every decision that seemed too daring, Jean scoffing in the background.

Fifteen years after Jean had first joined them, Pierre had paid attention. He'd seen the cloud in the wrong place. But he didn't say anything, because if Jean didn't think it dangerous, then it wouldn't be, and Pierre was trying not to be a coward, these days. So they sailed — and the storm caught them.

(These days, his brother's voice lives in his ear. He thinks Jean has died, before, but then again, Jean is always with him. Pierre watches himself doing things without meaning to, moving before he's aware of it. There's a haze over everything — somehow, he's more than one person now, has been for longer than he really remembers. He'd marveled at the strength with which those his-but-not-his-actions were carried out, at first, but then the pain set in. When he breathes the air is full of jagged shards, each time he lifts his hand a wicked blade hacks him apart. There's blood in his lungs, his kidney stutters around a fractured rib and warm urine leaks down the inside of his thighs and he wishes he could stop, he doesn't understand why he can't stop, how can he stop, brother, but brother–

Those are his constants, now: The pain and his brother. The terror.)—

—

(Before the fight:

"Don't kill Pierre–"

"Who now?"

"The brother," the cowboy repeats, "He's still alive, and doesn't deserve it."

"Of course not," Lana responds and tastes bile, "Do I look like I want to deal with more ghosts? Grant them the _joy_ of sticking around – don't look at me like that! In my world, 'Deserving Death' is an antiquated concept.")

—

Knocking someone out has more consequences for them than waking up with a headache, usually; Lana knows that, it's been drilled into her. But the look in her opponent's eyes – gone the haunted, hollow glaze, replaced by screaming without a voice, its anguish slicing through her ribs, because she recognizes that terror, and she can't –

Flames burst past her, followed by a growl from Firefly, and he's still measuring the distance and why, why is that so important when there's a frightened, powerless human at their feet, stuck in a nightmare, trapped inside his head, tied to the looming echo of his brother – _tied to_ –

A fist meets her skull, hard and fast, and she crumbles.

—

—("Think on your feet. Think _with_ your feet. Don't get distracted."

Lana's on the ground, spitting out gravel. Who's rotten idea was it to lay out _any_ of the training grounds with crushed rock? Her arms and legs are scraped raw, and she'll spend the night picking pieces of stone out of her skin, trying not to let her brother see and failing. He'll get that tortured, worried look in his eyes again. She'd even take the sand any day–

"Pay attention! Tell me why you're here."

Lana breathes and inhales dust. She hacks it back up. "To learn t-to –" _Fight,_ no, that's not it, she thinks, feebly– "To defend myself long-" she takes a shaky breath, "- long enough to run away."

"Which means, for you?"

She struggles to her feet, meets Sensei's eye. "Inflict the ultimate damage in the shortest amount of time."

"Good. Again.")—

—

Someone is shaking her, yelling: "Lana!"

She opens her eyes and sees blue. The air is filled with the smell of burned hair and scorched fabric, and there, underlying: A sharp, fresh poke to her nostrils.

_Ozone._

Her head pounds sharply and propels her up, almost colliding with the blue above her–

"Pigtails!" she hisses, and with a fast look that makes her head swim, sees: The brother, still out, and beyond – Firefly using Jamie as a punching ball.

"He's so cool!" Pigtails sighs and pokes at the pitiful remnants of Lana's attire. She fixates her with big, honey-colored eyes: "You're hurt. Are you hurting?"

Bruises and scrapes cover her skin, her skull is throbbing, her left arm is three blows away from dislocation. No blisters yet, Lana notes. "Pains like a rotten mildew." She swats her hand away, then reconsiders. "Help me up." She wobbles on her feet, announcing: "I think I know what to do."

Right on cue, Julian is sailing past her, trailing fire like some very exotic, very ugly bird. Pigtails waves.

"Do tell," says Firefly, beside her.

—

The plan is simple, as simple as the clap of thunder in the distance:

"I need to haul the guy to their ship, and you need to keep Justin from stopping me."

"Jean," he corrects out of reflex, knitting his brows. "Why?"

"Same difference," she says, hoping to look more confident than she feels. "It's the distance. We need to–" Jay roars, charges, "– you know what, just do it, and don't burn what's left of my clothes."

The look he shoots her is so dirty she feels the need to wipe her hands.

—

Ever tried hauling a heavily injured, six foot, unconscious guy with bad breath along, trying to ignore your shoulder screaming at you? It's not exactly an afternoon walk in the park … even if there _is_ a kid beside you, pulling at you insistently.

Jesse realizes what she's doing halfway to the docks, the rushing of waves growing louder in a way she hopes isn't just due to the wind picking up. Pigtails yells, and Lana is ducking – to the wrong side. The hook aimed for her jaw grazes her cheek. She hisses, unclenches her teeth, takes a swing. Jake trips over the kid.

"You!" he screeches, trying to get up and failing, his shirt getting eaten by flames, "You won't take him away! I won't let you–"

" _Go faster!"_ Sparks yells.

And she's got a million things to say, but she's sick of it, her head feels like it's split into a thousand pieces and– She bends down and flips the limp body over her shoulders, winces, and takes off, stumbling blindly after bouncing pigtails, her own hair whipping around her head. Then she sees the ship, and it's there, her feet stagger up the plank and she dumps the body at the mast. She doesn't dare spare a glance behind her, let alone rest. The boat has to leave, so she blocks it all out and wills her hands to remember, tying and loosening knots with trembling fingers, tugging flapping sails into their hooks, securing the poles. Promptly, the sails billow and the ship pulls impatiently at the ropes.

"He's waking up!" Pigtails screams over the sound of crashing waves and groaning wood, but it doesn't matter now, as Lana sprints to the rudder–

She cries out, toppling to the planks, hand flying to her shoulder, but Jerome is already on her, pinning her down with wild grey eyes and hair stuck out in every direction, and is someone cooking?

Blinking and panting, she wonders where the sparking cowboy is.

—

("Seriously? Why does it still work like that– yeah hello to you to, Mr. and Mrs. Codfish, oh don't–don't swim through _there_ – that's disgusting, you know.")

—

Jared is giggling. "You'll give me life, now," he mutters, "I know it." He presses his elbow into Lana's damaged shoulder and a whimper escapes her throat. Then his lips are at her ear, and now she can hear him clearly over the howling wind: "I'm better, always – but he," his arm shifts, squeezing her windpipe, "–he always deserved to die."

She croaks, " _Goat shelter."_

"What?" he lowers the pressure, sceptical, "Is that the way, to sacrifice a goat?"

Lana's eyes turn. "I said," she rasps, "Goodbye shoulder!"

She swings her injured arm and punches him with all she has under his ear, hitting a pressure point. He yelps and recoils, and she flips their positions. Her good arm presses down on his throat.

"You, buddy," she gasps and blinks back stars, "are fighting a lost battle."

He grins. "Really? What are you going to do now?" he taunts and misses her point entirely. "It's just as well you made the ship ready, I was planning to take you with us anyway!"

She feels cold pinpricks on her arms, shudders, and then the first raindrops splatter against the wooden deck. The rigging creaks and moans in the wind. Her mind races. She gulps. "Where's–"

" _Ace!"_

Pigtail's shout barely comes a second before Lana is yanked away, landing on her bad shoulder and letting out a pained moan.

"That," Sparks states, his hat dangling from his neck in a much too soft breeze and his gaze clouded, "was dirty, you bastard."

He lights up.

—

(Have you ever seen how fire braces a storm? It ducks, crawls along the ground, desperate for shelter, feeble, dying. But fire _personified_ – the air sizzles, dries up, doesn't dare to come closer.

None of these things happen: His fire isn't of this world anymore. It's impossible, water and flames overlaying each other, coexisting, every drop of water gleaming, giggling as they bat the flickering light back and forth between them, no mortal eyes able to follow, and the heat–

It evaporates the rain falling on her instantly.

 _Show-off_ , some last coherent part of Lana scoffs.)

—

—(Two ghosts had met on a busy dock, several islands to the northwest. The one with the bright orange hat had surveyed the ships preparing to hoist anchor, and the one with cargo-pants and a sway in his step had asked him where he wanted to go.

"I still have a connection to my brother," Jean said. "Luckily for both of us. He could get you anywhere. What are you looking for, Mr. Portgas?"

"There's a girl that can see us, apparently," Portgas D. Ace responded easily, because Jean knew of him and didn't blink. "There's a brother I need to find and I hope she can help."

"Brothers," Jean japed, "Always need looking after even from the afterlife, eh?"

The pirate laughed sheepishly, agreeing. He had never thought of his death anything other than permanent.

"Well, come on then," Jean beckoned, eyes sharp and awake, "Let's find that miraculous girl in the name of brothers.")—

—

The ship groans, pivots, and one of the ropes tying it to the docks snaps. It's a whip, thrashing around and chasing Lana, as she ducks and staggers to the railing. And there's Pigtails, helping her along it, guiding her where she points, while water runs down her face and makes her hair stick to her skin, dripping down on the bone-dry child. When she reaches the helm, she steadies herself on the kid's shoulder, swings her leg: The sound of splintering wood is barely heard over the driving rain. She almost breathes in relief.

Then the second rope tears off, and she can only watch as the plank skids to the side and disappears underwater. Lana stares at the churning waves. The last remaining rope laughs at her, straining and quivering in the wind. She won't make the jump, not with her her exhausted legs and single functioning arm. Gripping the kid's shoulder harder, she half-listens to the insults Firefly and Jude throw at each other over the howling wind.

"The big man is coming," the kid whimpers. "Lana?"

Lana draws in a sharp breath, moves, climbs onto the railing next to the last rope. There, she stands, teetering in the wind.

"Lana?"

—

The plan was simple:

Get the brother to the ship. The ghost would follow, because he had no choice. The ship would leave.

She has some talents, admittedly, but good plans, well. They have a habit to turn around at the end, to point and laugh at her.

—

She jumps.

The kid screams.

Lana's right arm catches the rope, it strains and _god, what now_ , but then it _snaps_ and she's slamming into the stone wall of the docks with a wet _splat_. The storm doesn't think that's enough, turns and tosses her, making her watch the parting ship, catch the eye of the brother, a knife in his hand and the fluttering severed rope below. Is–is he _nodding?_ The sea rises and crashes down on her, roaring _let go, let go,_ drowning out the child's voice calling to her through a sick and broken snail connection. What is it saying? Let go? Maybe, yeah, that would be best – so easy and so simple, she's so tired, so heavy. What's her body doing, what's– her left hand blindly grasps the rope and that shoulder _screams._

 _Let go,_ the rest of her hums back.

"Stupid, this is stupid," Lana hisses, sobs, spits out a soggy strand of hair, "It's just salt water, isn't it, just mildewed, rotten– so bloody dumb–" A wave swallows her words and settles around her like a heavy coat, pulls at her, the rope sliding through her fingers– or is it going up? What is _up_ and _down_ anyway, it's just a matter of perspective–

(She won't remember anything else. Those who stole from the sea devil never tell the truth about it; the drowning. They say the water makes you weak, make up elaborate stories, spin tales about the exact weight in your limbs, and it's not a lie, precisely – simply not the entire truth. Most of them forget about it immediately, again and again, and that is probably for the best.

They would never fall asleep again otherwise.)

—

She wakes: Wheezing, hacking, water spurting out of her nose and sliding down her chin, and turns her face right into a puddle.

"What on earth is going on?" drones a familiar, deep voice above her. "Why did you– what–"

Closing her eyes, Lana tries to savor the raindrops on her skin and shivers. She counts them, the shivers, and takes stock.

"It's raining," she rasps. "And I almost drowned."

Jet protests, "That's not–"

She tries to sit up and falters. "Would you do me a f-favor and help me p-pop back my shoulder? I'd do it myself, but I'm still–," her teeth chatter, "a-and, well–" She holds up her right hand and shows him the rope burns on her fingers.

—

(Winning a fight, they always told her, is glorious. There you are, a bloody mess, but your opponent –opponents– are bloodier, down on the ground to your feet, slowly painting the gravel a deep, beautiful red. And you: Standing above them, filled with triumph, and everything will be worth it, for this single, shining moment–)

—

She throws her head back and howls when the joint is pushed back into place. Tears mingle with rain and lingering salt, burning a trail through the grazes on her skin. Her eyes open to a cowboy crouching down in front of her.

"You're pathetic," he tells her, but there's no heat behind his words.

She grimaces and lets Jet help her up. "Shut up, it hurts."

Jet stills. "I didn't say anything."

"Of course you didn't," she sighs, looks up, spots the crowd,

—

(– _glorious_ , what a complete and utter, bloody rotten _bullshit_ , she would hiss, watching her wounds and purple blotted skin disappear beneath bandages, and missing home, because:)

—

Post fight is always pre fight. It never fails to be true.

Between the hulking figures flashes a pair of bright blue pigtails, barreling toward her, babbling, crowing, ("–and I thought of Mum and Dad, see, and then I was here, and she was right there, and–") but Lana watches, sees how they duck away under the canopies, children peeking around their backs. Their mouths open and close, but whatever they are saying– the wind carries the words away, whistling around the corners and shaking the old woodwork. It tears at the charred remains of her clothes, cold and filled with salt and frightened, reproachful glances, that cannot comprehend what they saw.

_What happened to the trader?_

She raises a trembling hand to sweep the locks sticking to her face, and they flinch. "I put him back on his ship. He left."

Behind her, the sea roars. And the voices, they grow, they overlay, intertwining and echoing, hissing and spitting and pointing fingers–

—

(It's peaceful, here, and small-minded. Nothing ever happens. Nothing can ever happen.

Mr. Trader, the patrons reported, had spoken to her just before, and only attacked when she ran away. She'd obviously been the target, for reasons they could not fathom, but did not desire to find out. And to think, they let someone so dangerous, someone who would not stop after drawing blood, so foreign, serve them drinks? See her catch fire out of nowhere, go down from blows that never were? Have a storm brewing outside the season?

For a moment, the world beyond the shore, foreign and terrifying, set foot in a harbor filled with grief. A kid died, a poisonous herb. We cannot forget that.

It was simple: She had brought the trouble, so she needed to go.)

—

The cowboy frowns a little. "What's their deal?"

Pigtails wails: "She beat the bad guy! Why aren't you happy?!"

And Lana? She stumbles, slipping between Jet's hands. She takes a breath, chokes, takes another. She says, "Shut up."

She says, "I'll leave."

She runs.

(Raindrops pierce her skin, freezing her bones. Her feet splash through puddles and dirt, steady, not faltering, leaving it behind. Sparks keeps up with her easily.

"That could've gone better," he offers, and anger sleeps in his voice.

It couldn't have gone any different, she thinks. "Do me a favor?"

"Hm?"

"Shut the hell up.")

This, Lana learned: There are so many battles, and she can't win any of them. Her only choice is to save her skin, get out as fast as she can, then try and make injuries vanish with ointments, gauze and painkillers. The other wounds, the ones she can't reach with remedies, buried, those ones she will just have to live with.

(Pick your battles, they say; None of them, she sighs, please; but nobody listens.)

—

Lana can count what she owns on one hand: A worn notebook, filled to the brim in a neat, immortalized hand, unopened and sealed closed. A small leather pouch, contents clinking together with a soft, comforting sound. A silly spotted neckerchief, a pair of dainty leather gloves, and a tailored olive coat, painstakingly embroidered with delicate swirls and circles, all faded and remembering years, some more fondly than others. She came with little, and she will leave with little.

(Things she takes: Medicine, money, provisions, a change of clothes. Things she leaves behind: A trampled home and hearth, a broken promise. Isn't that a terrible thing to feel familiar?)

Firefly watches her packing with unreadable eyes. "So ... who's the kid?"

Lana shrugs, takes out a towel for her hair. It's a little awkward, with only one hand, so she grits her teeth through the pain. "She died a few days ago. She's been hanging around."

He raises his eyebrows. "Wow, that sounds enthusiastic."

She stops herself from rolling her eyes. What use would it be?

"What happened?" he asks, and she wonders – he clarifies: "Back there?"

"With …"

"Jean. What did you do?"

She didn't–

—(Much later, Remi will call what Lana described as a 'takeover' as becoming a _Poltergeist_ : An experience so cutting, so deep, so _obsessive_ , that the whole being of the ghost, or what is left of it, strikes out to the closest living person and _latches_ on; closing a binding contract that none of the parties ever signed.

The kid knows her stories: A _poltergeist_ was this troublesome spirit, usually malicious, loud and commonly haunting a particular person. And she has to call it something tangible, because _Naming things always makes it easier to understand_.

 _Fair enough_ , Lana will offer, struggling to decipher the all-too familiar handwriting of a memory, looking for answers.)—

Now, she tries: "Something," she fumbles, pushes away stray thoughts, "something happened, and jerk-face - became? - part of his brother, able to make him do what he wants by –"

"– locking him away inside," Firefly finishes. "I knew something wasn't right, but I just figured … it was a way for them to stay together." He quirks his lips. "Always flew the same distance. Yeah, I knew it wasn't me."

"Those two are tied together, where one goes, the other has to follow."

"So, you put him on the ship, and Jean would have no choice but follow. And they can't return, because they're drifting with a broken helm."

Her hands still on the clasps of her bag. Silence reigns, loaded with the unspoken implication. Then he ventures: "You know what this means for his brother, right?"

She closes her eyes. Tells herself that she tried, that the injuries weren't– it wasn't like she– he could be fine. He could find help. "I know," she whispers.

Firefly gives her a half-hearted smile. "Well. It's not like we could've done anything. Right?"

The ship had parted, on the reeling the brother, a knife in his hand and the fluttering severed rope below. He'd nodded. Did he understand, she wonders? (Does it make a difference who does the deed?)

"Let's go," she says.

(The dead pirate wonders–

" _How did your last 'takeover' work out?"_

" _It didn't.")_

—

Jet blocks the doorway, little out of breath. "Lana! Lana, listen– they don't mean it like that–"

"They do," she interrupts him. "It's okay. I need to leave."

"No!" He throws up his hands, then takes a hasty, unsure step back. "No, listen–" He gulps. "I'm sure we can figure this out. I'm – somehow I think you saved me, back there."

She looks at him, his open, round face, marred by a black eye and bruises, and she feels– a little like something is squeezing the air out of her chest, her eyes prickling at the corners.

"I thought I– had you figured out." He shuffles his feet. "You're a good girl, Lana. I've never been wrong about someone and I know … I know you're a good girl, so I never asked what happened, what made you come here. But now … today–" he spreads his hands, reaching, helpless, "Please help me understand."

—

(As fates go, in this world, hers is not the most tragic sort: Leafless Lana, as her full name goes, was born into a loving family, privileged and well-off, trusted and able to trust, and most of them are arguably still around. Daughter of councillors, always supporting, miles of orchards and deep shop storages ready to be explored, a sibling's hand in each of hers. People would give up precious things for a setup like that, and part of her, a part that she keeps close to her heart, is very aware of it. She knows she couldn't have done anything, but– But.

It's not her fault it went to hell in a handbasket. One day, she might even believe that. One day, she will find out how much it wasn't. (There's a story, with plenty of corruption, greed and complications, and on some tomorrow, there will come a time to untangle the threads.)

Today, though:)

—

She stays simple. "I can see and interact with ghosts. After one of them tried to kill me as a child, I was trained on Karate Island until– until I realized how much danger I was putting my family in. So I left, and came here to escape ghosts, because _nothing ever happens here_ , right?" She barks out a hoarse laugh. Her throat hurts, pounding in time with her head. "Tell the kid's parents she's fine. I mean not _fine_ fine, since she's dead and still around, but you know. Still talking people's ears off."

Jet looks much like as if she'd taken one of the tankards downstairs and smashed it over his skull. He's still dripping on the floor from the rain outside. "Remi? You saw– her ghost? Where? Is– is she the reason why the trader– I can't imagine–"

"No," she shakes her head, "that was something else. It doesn't matter. They're gone. Do you know of a boat I can use?"

"Yes, but– George offered, it's down behind his house. He's the fisherman we - listen," he catches her arm as she tries to squeeze past him, "I'm not sure I understand–"

"It's alright." She pats his sturdy arm. "Just be wary of sudden weather changes and traders going berserk in the future and you'll live happily ever after."

She manages to push past him. On the topmost stair, she hesitates, looks back, watches how he shivers when Firefly steps through him. She smiles ruefully.

"Sorry for the ruined tavern. And ... Thanks, Jet. It means a lot to me."

—

(For three years, one of the three spare rooms in the only tavern of the island had been occupied. Jet had often, privately, thought of the girl like one might think of a stray cat with a shredded ear and wary eyes, wandering through the door in search of a dry and quiet place to curl up and a jug of milk in the morning. Jet had been feeding stray cats for most of his fifty-three-years, and old Harriet from down in the kitchen did not mind cooking for one more person regularly, just as she didn't mind stopping. But the key to the spare room would remain on its hook for three months, thirteen days after the girl left it, and even though Jet didn't really drink milk, he would be leaving the jug out in the mornings for another month and nine days.)

(There's probably something to be said about kindness and kind ones, now: Some of those people, you owe an explanation, some, you owe lies. Some, Lana remembers, you just say goodbye to. So if she finds it, she holds on tightly, collects it piece by piece, so that it may serve as armor for less kinder times.)

—

There's one thing, maybe, that surprises Lana:

"I'm coming with you," the kid declares, perched on the threshold of the tavern. "No duh!"

Lana sighs, runs her fingers through her damp her. She's just so tired. "What about your parents, kid? Don't you want to stay with them?"

Pigtails sniffs, eyes red and blotchy, and stares determinedly into the downpour. "I'm _your_ guardian angel now. They don't see me. They don't…"

She's just a kid, Lana thinks, and tries to catch Firefly's eyes, but all he's doing is observing the child, not offering an answer. Lana gives up and shrugs, then winces at the pain. "Fine. It's not like anything's gonna happen to you anyway."

Lana doesn't leave like she came; there's no hope for peace in her future. Her boat is small, manned alone. It leaves in the dark, rain drenching her and the wind at her back, tearing at every fiber of her being. There's death behind her, and death before her, so in the end, maybe it makes no difference.

("I'm sorry," Firefly offers into the howling wind. Pigtails is humming.

"Yeah," Lana sighs, "You probably should be.")

—

(Miles away, a beat-up trading vessel is tossed and turned by the waves like a plaything. _Fix-it_ , screeches an echo, raving and raging against the injustice done to him. His brother, unruly hair whipping around his head and into his face, clings to the railing, shivering, smiling. A trail of blood drips from the corner of his mouth, mixing with rain and saltwater. He remembers, hears: _You, buddy, are fighting a lost battle._

"I'm sorry, brother," he whispers –the spirit whirls around, wild-eyed, w _hat?_ – and then he lets go. The waves devour him with gusto, as the last, furious scream of a dead man echoes over an empty deck. A lightning bolt chases across the sky in response. And the storm? It chases across the sea, hunting, reaching a small ship with three passengers – or maybe just one, depending on who you ask.)

—

This is how it goes: Death greets girl. How else could it possibly go?

 

—

\- tbc in **PART II** _(who stops your bones from wondering just who you are)_

— 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notable characters that appeared:
> 
>  **Lana** , alive, 21yr old born on Pianta Island, South Blue. When she was eleven, she ate the Spirit Spirit Devil Fruit, whose exact properties as well as those of spirit’s she will be forced to discover as the story goes on.  
>  **Ace** , spirit, deceased some time ago, who is looking to put any lingering business of his life to rest. The brother he lost as a child must be it. **alt.** ‘the cowboy’, Firefly, Sparks.  
>  **Remi** , spirit, a kid that just got a little too curious in her quest for herbal secrets. If she’s put her mind to something, good luck trying to convince her otherwise. **alt.** Pigtails.  
>  **Jean** , spirit and poltergeist, who inadvertently bonded slash melded his spirit to the soul of his living brother Pierre. He’s one in a long line of ghosts who couldn’t accept their death. You’re not special, Jean. **alt.** John, Luke, whatever, Jason, Jim, Jaiden-or-something, Josh, Jamie, Julian, Jay, Jesse, Jerome, Jake, Jared, Jude a.o.  
>  **Pierre** , alive until his suicide, unfortunate brother to the late Jean and victim of the latter’s ‘takeover’. His soul’s command over his body was overpowered by his brother’s spirit. **alt.** ‘the brother’  
>  **Jet** , alive, barman with a big heart. Just trying to live his life and serve the patrons in his tavern. You did great, Jet.
> 
> stay tuned for tales involving lots of dead people and unfinished business, featuring our own favorite hothead, ladies kicking butt and getting their butt kicked, and all the mess of choices that make up life and the people left behind – everyone's the hero of their own story.


	2. PART II (who stops your bones from wondering just who you are) II-I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened so far:  
> Lana had been enjoying some years of quality ghost-free time when a guy called Portgas D. Ace and some little girl, both dead as can be, came around and made short work of that beautiful reprieve. Unfortunately, Ace also brought along another ghost who wasn't taking no for an answer and had to be dealt with, before Mr Portgas could then drag his new ghost mediator and her newly self-appointed guardian angel off into the proverbial sunset. A very stormy sunset, that is.
> 
> Now:  
> This is not a town of hospitality, they say. Or: There's a town with a harbor, and it appears to be haunted in more than one sense of the word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to **kinjiru** and **wordlet** , for beta-ing this chapter!
> 
> This chapter starts off slow, but bear with me; things have the ability to escalate very quickly ...

—

 **PART II** _(who stops your bones from wondering just who you are)_

—

**II.I**

There's a town with a harbor – and yes, isn't that how it usually goes? The people there are a little rattled, for more reasons than one, but currently the main concern is the tail end of the hurricane from the east, specifically the minor destructive havoc it wreaked. Not for the first time, they are grudgingly glad for the heavy padlocks securing the boats to the docks additionally to the ropes and chains, and not for the first time, carpenters and thatchers have a busy morning, warily checking over their shoulders. _Things aren't how they used to be_ , one of them muses to the matriarch overseeing the cleanup at the harbor. A magenta flower is pinned behind her right ear, glowing vividly against short grey hair, and her warning glance silences him. There are rigid men in uniforms standing nearby, eyes jumping between the matriarch and the golden tresses of the woman and two children who make their way around and pour palm wine for the volunteers. Silvery white mist coils and uncoils uneasily in the depths of the brew.

Foot patrols have been sent out along the coastlines, and back out at sea, ships are fishing half-drowned soldiers out of the water. The old structure up on the hill watches on, waiting, windows like bottomless, judging eyes. Things haven't been how they used to be for a very long time.

—

(This is not a town of hospitality, these days, even though or maybe _because_ the unrestrained laughter of a woman with swirling wild hair is still penetrating their very foundations. This town is filled to the brim with tension, one should be mindful of turning over rocks — because even a pebble tossed into a pool of water will cause ripples, however small. It might be enough to make the basin overflow.)

—

— _Addressed to newly appointed Fleet Admiral Sakazuki, dated six months past:_

"– _Request for Level Beta Blockage around B. Island to bring a stop to development as previously reported. Involvement of citizens suspected and evidenced. Unregulated exchange of goods and unrestricted travel needs to be prevented. Urgent. Further backup requested with ongoing issue.–"_

_Stamped 'GRANTED', signed. Note underneath: "If you don't get the damn place under control, Fidel, more drastic measures will need to be taken. Why it has not been wiped of the map is beyond my understanding."—_

—

Further away, seagulls are soaring up and down in the cloudless sky above, the hurricane but a bad dream. Their cries echo in the steep hills that surround the beach and that grow into mighty cliffs toward the south — it is a gorgeous beach, by all accounts. Ocean waves wash over sand soft and fine, perfect for burying your toes, and palm trees swing their leaves with the gentle breeze and whisper soft, sweet nonsense. But this delightful, picturesque scenery is marred by pieces of what once might have been a little boat – and, incidentally, the as of yet unresponsive body of Portgas D. Ace's new … spirit guide? Who is absolutely missing out on the scenery, snoozing away all morning.

"And to think," he muses, idly tapping out a rhythm on her back, "that you are the only one of us who's actually able to _feel_ the sun on your face and the sand underneath your feet." He suspects Lana is one of those grouchy-as-hell-types upon waking after a shipwreck, glaring at the beauty that surrounds them and cursing it into oblivion. He sighs. "You know, this piece of paradise was between you and drowning, or getting crushed against that cliff. You're very, very lucky."

The body underneath his fingers finally twitches with a muffled groan. Ace leans over with baited breath, anticipating her displeasure. If he were alive, the piece of wreckage he is leaning against would shift in the soft ground, feel warm and solid behind his back — but he isn't, so it doesn't. "Sorry, what?"

She coughs out some sand, shuffles onto her back and braces herself on her elbows, skin dusky and a little grey against the bright sand. Then, she looks around and just … stares, apathetic. "Huh."

Ace blinks. "… Huh?"

"We ended up in paradise," she says dispassionately. "Yay."

He twitches as irritation tugs at him. That's not a reaction. Where are the curses? The sneer? Or the delight, the curiosity? There should at least be _something_ , he reasons. After what they, she, went through to get here––

Lana sighs and scrambles to her feet, swaying for a moment and eyeing the dirtied wrappings around her fingers. "Okay, so transport's gone, and I possibly have a concussion, and sand in my bandages. Where's Pigtails?"

Pigtails? He squints at her, both parts confused and annoyed. She can't mean her little adorable companion, doesn't she know her name? Lana stares back, her face blank. He tries, "Do you mean Remi?"

Several seconds tick by. Ace is increasingly sure she does, in fact, not know her name, and decides to have mercy, despite not feeling very merciful. "The little girl that came with us?"

That finally gets a reaction: "Obviously," she raises an eyebrow, "Probably. Yes. Pigtails."

"She's gone to explore," he says, and tries to shake off her grating apathy with a roll of a shoulder, picturing blue hair and shining, excitable eyes and smiling fondly at the image. "She told me she's never been off her island."

"She's like, four, so no wonder."

"I'm pretty sure she's older," Ace ventures, his lips twitching down. _Ignore the apathy_ , his mind chants. _Ignore._

"Was," she corrects absent-mindedly, eyes searching the wreckage, "Was older."

Ace opens his mouth, but before he has even figured out a retort––

" _ **I found agrimony!"**_

"Mouldy—," Lana yelps, whipping around to glare at the child, who popped out of thin air right behind her. "Don't- don't _do that,_ " she hisses and presses a hand to her head.

Ace winks at Remi, who had been appearing and disappearing the whole morning, while he sat vigil over their unconscious ward. Remi beams back. "But it's fun! Did you know I could do that?"

Lana eyes her apprehensively. "… No?"

 _Liar,_ Ace mouths over the kids head, and smirks. She squints back in warning.

"And I found agrimony," Remi repeats, "You should pick some. Also, there's a town that way," she points, "and there are lots of boats. We can't use the old one," she adds solemnly.

Lana keeps staring at her. Ace can practically _hear_ her think, _No shit, Captain Obvious._ "What's ag-money," she asks instead.

"Agrimony. A herb that's pretty useful," Ace responds without pause, having played indulgent audience to the kid's ramblings since before sunrise, "Stops bleeding, among other things. Remi here is a wizard when it comes to herbs." He reaches out and tugs at one of her pigtails, and she puffs out her chest in pride.

"Cool," Lana sighs and finally spots her backpack amongst the rubble, hoisting it over her shoulders. "Then let's go."

The waves rush over sand and flotsam, wind erasing their footsteps.

—

(Childish giggles had pealed in the early morning, unheard by the twitching furry ears of the night, while two ghosts had dug out and de-sanded the only girl that could hear them. The pigtailed child delighted in the feel of grains of sand trickling through her fingers, the only sand on the entire beach that would do so. The pirate brushed some more off of Lana's legs into his hands and shook them out over the top of the kid's head, laughing when she squawked and shook her pigtails, grains glittering in the air as hair flapped against the sides of her face.

"Hey," Ace said, distracting her so she wouldn't notice how the rest floated down through her body after a scant few seconds. "You know how you appeared back at your mum's side when you've just been on a ship?" And then he showed her how she could disappear and reappear in the blink of an eye, if only to place she had seen and been to before. He could ignore the bitter taste it left in his mouth, the fact that he could go to _places_ but not seek out _people_ – even though that connection should matter much more than to simple locations, even though people made places important first – he could forget it all a little by watching the bright, contagious curiosity in Remi's eyes, her elated cheers after she got the hang of it and was flickering all over the beach. He could sidetrack the kid from worrying over the prone body in the sand, from the weight the storm left on their shoulders:)

—

(The last one and a half days were a blur for all of them, trapped in a storm as they were, and filled with salt and biting gales and a lot of being thrown over and knocked about for Lana. None of that was felt by her dead companions except the last bit when she happened to land on them.

Ace felt the cold, and he felt the movement of the boat; both of which he thinks is due to habit – only one of which is the case, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. It matters that he could notice and anticipate the motions of the rolling waves, that he could try and steady the woman when it was necessary, point her in the direction of the right stars for the direction to Reverse Mountain. It matters that everything seemed so _familiar_ but the cold, and that he got distracted for one moment. One moment is all it took for the woman to be knocked off her feet by a particularly nasty wave and bust her head open on the edge of the cabinet.

"C'mon, I _just_ found you!", he'd exclaimed, while the child scrambled to help him put Lana on the side, pressing a handkerchief that she'd somehow unearthed from her own overalls to the wound.

Neither of them paid attention to where the wind was blowing them. None of them were looking out to see them passing silhouettes that were distinctively not wave-shaped, the boom of distant cannons drowned out by howling winds. Their unwitting patient barely woke up long enough to see the coastline hurtling towards them, only muttering: "… that can't be good for my head—"

For the ghosts, crashing was more unpleasant than anything else. They just had to take care not to wince every time a piece of wreckage swooped through their heads, with the woman in Ace's grip to slow her fall and Remi clinging to his side.)

—

This is a truth, a fact: They are dead, and she is not. It should be such an obvious, simple thing, but they will catch themselves overlooking what it _means_ constantly. And it's easy; they can touch her, talk to her like any other ghost, while anyone alive would walk right through them – they're alive with her, and she's dead with them. But it's a lie. Mortality is suddenly a lot more fragile once it's out of your hands and you remember it matters, that while its shadow has left you, it still has her in its grip: she can die, or they could kill her — and not even mean to.

—

"We might have saved your life, you know," Ace tries, after a period of silently trekking past palm trees and through wild shrub of fern, following glimpses of blue hair. "In that storm. Just so you know. Maybe be a little nicer to the kid?"

"Sure. Thanks." She barely glances at him. "I guess I shouldn't have set sail so soon."

"Do you know—" he swallows back ' _anything'_ "—much about sailing?" He does remember how Pierre's ship had been ready to go when he got there. How she left the sails of her own boat rolled up when they left into a storm, though also the way she didn't seem to know north from south.

"Hardly," she replies. "But I spent a few months as a hand on deck, before leaving the ship on that island. Muscle memory and nothing beyond that."

"So what—" he trails off and shivers. An icy chill seeps through the gaps in the trees, cut off by a heatwave that makes even him break out in sweat. Some part of him knows, without any input from his nose, that it smells like flowers and salt. Goosebumps raise on his skin and he musters them, bewildered. "… happened …", he finishes belatedly. "Do you feel that?"

"What?"

Ace stares past her through the vegetation, has taken a few steps into the direction before he knows it, heart in his throat. "That— chill? —Hey kid," he calls, "Remi!" The girl appears at his side immediately. He points, shivers, sweat trailing down his brow. "Do you know what's this way?"

Remi cocks her head. "A house. It's all overgrown and pretty, but nobody was there."

Ace doesn't hear if there's anything else she has to say, already phasing through the trees with urgency, his heart beating in overdrive. Something is this way, something– he stumbles out onto a clearing, his head swivelling wildly, eyes flitting around. The only sound is the blood rushing through in his ears and crashing undergrowth of the woman behind him making her way through the wilderness. He takes a gasping breath, thinking, bizarrely– _I don't even breathe anymore, my heart is not beating_ – but it feels like it really truly beats and not just seem like it, for a moment, for a moment—

Then he sees the house.

—

For a moment, there's nothing to see but fern and wild hibiscus under the shadow of dozens of palm trees. The open sea should be but a few paces beyond. It might strike as odd, then, that one can't see the blue of the sky and the ocean flashing through between the trunks – until the breeze shifts the palm leaves overhead and the sun reflects off the windows.

It's as if it is sleeping, that house, more a cottage, laid to rest beneath a thick green blanket of vines, pillowed on a myriad of red and orange and pink hibiscus. The low stone wall has long surrendered to the overgrown garden. ("Philodendron," the kid might supply helpfully, "and clematis.") It looks utterly abandoned. It looks–

—

— _white stained in_ _ **red**_ _yelling in his ear must_ _ **try harder**_ _pain he_ _ **can't die**_ _yet fingers_ _ **crushed**_ _in his grip bones_ _ **breaking**_ _he wants to apologize but can't, like there's an axe_ _ **cleaving him open**_ —

— _euphoria a laugh brimming with pure_ _ **spite**_ _and this is_ _ **everything**_ _this_ _**is it**_ _and oh was it_ _ **worth it**_ _, it was, it_ _ **must**_ _be, has to be—_

—

The echo of a scream rings in his ears, his lips feel crusted with the salt lingering on his tongue. He's staggered three steps in the direction of the door before a small hand tugs him back. He looks down and sees a child, a girl with her blue hair in pigtails, baggy overalls, vividly red rain boots and a queer tilt to her eyebrows–

"There's nobody in there," the child before him says, there's flowers printed on her red, red boots and he remembers, Remi, yes, that was her name– and his name was– "I checked, too."

Ace shakes his head so violently his hat almost falls off. "Right … right." He turns away with a reluctance that makes him want to shake himself again. It makes no sense, but he's hot and cold all over, both despairing and filled with elation–

At the edge of the clearing their living company awaits them, her eyebrows raised. "Do I want to know?"

"Don't you feel that?" Impressions just at the edge of his being. He feels like bawling his eyes out, like laughing so hard he can't breathe, aching in his skin. The air is rich with the fragrance of flowers, with the salty tang of the sea – or of tears, maybe–

"I–", Lana looks past him, then rubs her arms and abruptly swivels around on her heels, starting back through the trees. "Feels like not-our-business."

—

(He's reminded: Her first reaction is to run away. He can't help the sneer gracing his lips; remembers how he practically had to force her to turn around and help her own people. His first instinct has always been to stay, run forward, face everything head on – guard the retreat if nothing else. Every fiber of his being protests against leaving; something is _not right_ , even when the old stones and hibiscus whisper wistfully, _it's alright, it's fine, it's done, it's how it is supposed to be_ – It is grieving, that house, has been for a long time, maybe decades.

He wonders if he can feel death, now. What he just ... _felt_ , he can't imagine anyone surviving that. But he's been dead for a while now– and even when he came to at Marineford, he hadn't been this affected, despite the chill soaking everything in that place, the bitter mix of salt and metal in his mouth, despite what followed. And every place he's been since– nothing like it. This is different. This feels wrong, out of place.)

—

Once they are back making their way through the green in silence, Ace finds himself wishing for the forest line, because every flower they pass makes his thoughts fly back the way they came.

When Lana opens her mouth, he's grateful, thinking he'd take any topic right now to distract him. "So what's that thing on your back, anyway?"

For several seconds, he thinks there's some sort of insect or maybe leaf clinging there, and wastes some time with twisting and craning his neck – then he realizes, belatedly, that it'd be impossible. Irritation bubbles forth. "What are you talking about?"

She pokes his shoulder blade. "Don't tell me nobody told you about the tattoo on your back."

"You can't – don't tell me you don't recognize–" He's afraid, suddenly– they've already made people forget, it's all been for nothing, but that can't be possible– and something wild and feral rears its head in his chest. "You _have_ to know!"

She blinks. "It's a purple cross with a big blob and a white banana slapped in the middle."

"It's a mustache! And those are _crossbones!"_

"Why in all blights would you tattoo a _mustache_ on your back!?"

—

(He still sees it, clearly: The giant silhouette of his captain stands proudly against the sky, defiant and strong even in death. A sob lodges itself in his throat and won't let go – his father– how many of his brothers and sisters– he didn't ask for this, he didn't, he _swears_ , why did they come– but oh, he wished, yearned for this, didn't he, for an answer to the question clawing at his insides – if this is the answer, _he doesn't want it._ Still he drinks their words in like a starved man, laughs with relief and joy. What kind of person does this make him?

 _I chose you,_ booms the silhouette, _we want you to live,_ scream his siblings, the face of his little brother shining in determination, and he's so fucked up because he's happy while everything is going to shit– _This is our choice._

How can she not know? How–)

—

It will go like this, every time:

"How can you be this clueless? The entire world–"

"Listen, I'm sure it's conspiring entirely against you, _personally_ , but I don't care a blight about what ' _the world'_ is doing. Just tell me what it means and skip the drama."

(Lather, rinse, repeat.)

This first time, he doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry. "It's a jolly roger. Of _Whitebeard_ ," he stresses, and ends hopefully: "You know, the greatest pirate who ever lived?"

And the ignorant woman has the gall to just, _shrug_. "If you say so." The name inspiring respect, maybe fear, and she doesn't even _blink_. The tilt of her lips tells him she regrets asking at all.

Maybe it's better this way, he thinks. Half of him expected her to say something along the lines of " _Didn't he die for nothing?"_ but then he'd have gladly taken it as an invitation to introduce his fist to her face. Now he's left hanging, tripped up by insults that didn't come but still seem implied by a willful disinterest that's almost patronizing, presented as vexed without valid reason.

"I—yes," he flounders, like an idiot, "I say so."

—

(She doesn't know, so she doesn't care. She doesn't care, so she doesn't know. Does that make her impartial, or just terribly naive?)

—

(It went something like this: Boy meets death, smiles, and embraces him like an old friend. He knows he lived his life to the fullest, that he'll be missed, and that's all he ever yearned for. As story endings go, it could be worse, right? No place for sadness, only acceptance. It couldn't be better. What matters is this: There are no regrets.

So why is he still here?)

—

A few paces later comes relief: The undergrowth clears suddenly, right where two palm trees form a gateway to the path they are on. Below them, a town is sprawled on the seaside, climbing up the hill across the valley to a small castle, and filled to the brim with cottages and more palm trees. The forest creeps around and crowds the hills rising beyond it all.

That's the last thing he sees before he blinks his eyes open, almost feeling the ground digging into his back, to find both girls gone.

—

(In Lana's defense, she does try to wake him — she prods him with her foot repeatedly and calls "Firefly. Oi, Sparks!" a few times.

Pigtails bounds back to them and crouches down next to his unmoving body. "Is he dead?"

 _Really?_ Lana raises her eyebrows. "Yes."

Startled, Pigtails turns her head and blinks up at her; Lana can watch the gears turning in her head. Then a one of the butterflies flutters right through Pigtails, and the girl's eyes light up. "Oh, right!" she chirps. She looks back down to Firefly. "So what's he doing?"

Lana shrugs and steps over the guy. "He'll catch up, I guess."

Pigtails makes her stop and pick some of that herb she is so keen on, then makes her stop again for a flower with five large, orange-tipped pedals. The kid insists on weaving it into the hair behind Lana's left ear, a look of utter concentration on her face and tongue sticking out between her teeth. There is also a speech as to why Lana should wear this particular flower this particular way, but she is a little distracted by the worn down sign she passes at the edge of the town.

She sends the kid off to explore some more and breathes gratefully into the blessed silence. Then she shakes off a shiver, and goes in search for a place to eat.)

—

(Nailed to the crossbeam is what can be assumed to be the name of the town, but on many places, empty nail holes are all that is left of the letters. What is left of the caption currently reads: LATER.

It had previously also read RAT BILE, B TALLER, EAR BALL, ATE BILL, BEAT ALL, LIL BRAT and —on one memorable occasion— LIABLE, among other things the culprits were able to come up with the limited set of letters at their disposal. Each time sign and letters would be dutifully repaired by tired recruits, who are secretly only too glad to be out of the town for just a little while.)

—

This is not a town of hospitality, they say.

As soon as Ace puts his spiritual foot inside, his skin is crawling. The hot-and-cold-shivers ambush him randomly in the streets, his hands clammy and heartbeat throbbing in his ears, breath uneven — and that is a clue, right there, isn't it; he has mastered breathing and clearing his head years ago, he had to, with his devil fruit. This is not his fear, his grief, his anger, just like he was not dying back in the cottage, just like he had already died on Marineford.

He passes brightly colored little cottages, palm trees on every corner, cracks in every fifth wall. Blooming hibiscus battles garden fences; the air tastes like salt and iron, heavy with the fragrance of long wilted and dried flowers. There always seems to be a baby crying in the distance. Two of the taverns which Ace finds near the docks have their windows nailed shut and the sign graffitied over with the same hibiscus-design that decorates every other facade; the paint even covers the official-looking notice on the door, making it unreadable. The boats and the single ship in the harbor are _chained_ to the bollards, and he's been around more than enough to know that it can't be due to some frequent storms, like the one he passes people cleaning up after.

And normally— normally Ace is all for the intrigue, the adventure that beckons behind the instinct telling him something's off. But the hairs on his arms are rising with each step, he is wrestling with a panic that might not be his own — and he's _dead_. He's dead and his chance of closing the only unanswered chapter of his life is a willfully unobservant brick of a woman with a head injury, who apparently doesn't recognize a goddamn Jolly Roger. It occurs to him that she might not even know _who he is_.

So when Ace finds her, daintily handling food and looking absolutely unconcerned, in a tavern with a well-oiled sign proclaiming it "Twelve Palms And A Fork", he's ready to jump out of his skin after phasing all through town looking for her. There are familiar white-blue uniforms heading inside and he rushes through the patronage to her side, fire ready in his hand and reaching, words in his throat–

—

This is what Ace means to do:

He plans to pull her aside, chastise her for leaving him in a meadow, for walking around blindly, and ignore how hypocritical such statement might be, coming from him. He wants to say something along the lines of " _I have a bad feeling about this"_ or any other way to express "This place creeps me the fuck out and I can literally set my problems on fire and awoke on a battlefield, nothing more traumatising than that, _we should definitely be worried_ –"

Ace doesn't see the wad of cash in Lana's hands, about to be counted to pay for a good meal. He is not entirely aware of more eyes on her than should be normal in a tavern in a harbor town, or any run-of-the-mill tavern, the entire room watching her with something like confusion painted on their faces. There have been spoons paused in the air for the entirety of her visit, mouths open and soup and stew slowly dripping to the tabletop without notice. He barely registers the many obligatory bounty posters and newspaper clippings and notices on the wall behind the bar.

No, Ace is a little preoccupied by the three men and two women with white-blue uniforms marching up to Lana with purpose, and doesn't really think when he goes to grab her, dead breath stuttering.

The bills in Lana's hands are made of paper — in a very unsurprising turn of events, they happen to be very flammable and don't waste time catching fire. The room holds their breath as she drops them with a yelp and stomps out the flames, when she whirls around, pointing, " _Why are you burning my money, what in all rotten blights is wrong with you–"_

It might have been entertaining, it's just– Lana isn't growling at her current number one cause for irritation, not for everyone else, no; she's pointing and hissing at an Ensign of the Marines. And the Marines take one look at her, the ashes to her feet beside her worn backpack, the flower in her hair, and promptly arrests her.

—

(The tavern is deathly silent after the curly-haired stranger is dragged out.

"So," says the barman, a wiry young man with a shock of carefully brushed back, pink-tinted golden hair, into the empty space where the stranger was just standing. "Who's paying me?"

"Gotta get her back first for it," notes a woman, the green vest of the constabulary slung over her chair. "And good luck with that. Have you seen the flower in her hair? The nerves on that girl!"

"She just walked right in, absolutely unconcerned," someone whispers with awe, spoon still raised. His beard is peppered with grey, as well as with half his lunch. "Takes me back."

"How on earth did she manage to pass the blockage?"

"The storm was pretty bad, it hit them too …"

"Is _anyone_ going to say something about how her hands were on fire? Because–"

"All I'm hearing," grimaces the barman against the multiple voices of his patrons and sighs, "Is that I'm not getting paid."

Grabbing her vest, the woman from the constabulary rises to her feet. "Don't fret. I'll go inform Lady D."

"That's not helping!" he yells after her, "Torres! You know she never pays!"

"Go drink some of your _tari_ , P-boy!")

—

_Excerpts of File 10-6830: Collection of Official Notices, Town of B., Vol. 2-6._

_Regulation #23_

_(...) In accordance with §11 Level Beta Blockage, security checks are mandatory. This includes travel intentions and luggage inspections. Also in accordance with a §11 Level Beta Blockage, all seafaring vessels will remain locked by appointed officials and all outgoings controlled. (...)_

— _Addendum #23-5: Any Marine neglecting to report confiscated palm wine or any other goods will be on lavatory-duty for a month. No rank is exempt._

_Regulation #153_

_Flowers of the genus hibiscus are banned from open wear until further notice. This includes hair, clothes, objects et al. To do so otherwise will be seen as Open Resistance, no matter any pretexts of "Cultural Tradition". Refer to Regulation #5, symbolic uses of fire. Violations will be punished accordingly by law._

_(Scrawled underneath in precise, displeased letters: Lady P.D.B. is exempt from this simply because we cannot stop her without inciting a goddamn mob. She is unable to pay a fine. Stop arresting her, the paperwork is not worth it.)_

— _(...) Addendum #153-62: The flower is further prohibited from being displayed and drawn on any surfaces. One is to refrain from literally any use other than a garden plant._

_Regulation #214_

_Curfew within the city is from eleven p.m. to five a.m.. No citizen is to remain outside during these hours without certified reason. Any citizen apprehended within these hours will be punished accordingly by law. (...)_

_(Added in crisp, very displeased handwriting: Lady P.D.B. continues to insist to reside just outside city borders and is currently exempt from this regulation. She will always be "just on her way home" and none of you incompetent idiots will prove otherwise. Just stop arresting her.)_

_Regulation #1086_

_(...) Please cease messing with the place-name signs. Ensign H. just suggested putting it on the roster for the higher ranks with claims to division of labour._

_(Attached a napkin, laminated: With all due respect, Commander Fidel, consider looking for the culprits among your own. Vice is using the stacks of official complaints from citizens regarding this issue as replacement for the couch during lunch break. We have nothing to gain from these pranks but cheap furniture that gives us paper cuts. If you find the ones responsible, do tell them that we found "ATE BILL" particularity inspired. We never did find out what happened to him. "LIL BRAT", while surely justified, was just bad taste. — signed, Chief of Constabulary, TORRES; stamped OFFICIAL, ink bleeding into the tissue.)_

—

(This is not a town of hospitality, they said. It's true, in a lot of ways, or some; but there's still pink-tinted, golden-haired laughter echoing in the alleys, drifting in the salty air from the sea. There used to be a statue in the main town square for twenty one years, before it was taken down. Now the people have their grim and determined smiles, edged with fondness, whenever they pass a new graffiti of a blooming hibiscus; the gardens in between almost bursting at the seams with the very same flowers. It helps against the shivers, the echoes of wailing infants.

Neither the ghost kid nor the pirate had noticed that on their venture through town, they both gave the main town square a wide berth. There are more cracks in the walls there than anywhere else — except for the small castle on the hill, weathering tremors and waiting.)

—

Lana is not in a particularly good mood, understandably, what with being frog-marched with hands bound behind her back. "Can someone _please_ explain what in all mildewed moulds is going on?"

"You got arrested," Ace replies helpfully, in a much _better_ mood now that they have left the town and the crawling in his skin behind and are on their way up the hill to the old castle, which is probably where the local seagulls are roosting.

"Oh really," she comments, voice dry. "I didn't notice _._ "

The female marine beside her throws her a strange glance. "What didn't you notice? Landing on this island? Passing a Level Beta Blockage?"

"Passing a what now?"

Ace feels his lips twitch in amusement. It's either that or exasperation bordering on annoyance, or giving into the nagging worry that getting out of this might not be as easy as he's used to. "She's talking about a Marine blockage around an island, strictly controlling what and who gets in and out."

"What is your intention here?" the Marine continues, undeterred, "You might want to think of a good reason before the Captain or the Commander himself questions you."

Lana looks at them like they all have taken a temporary leave of sanity. "Lady, _I shipwrecked_. There was a storm, it happens. Why am I being arrested?"

"Why are you wearing the hibiscus, then?"

Lana blinks. "Wearing the what?"

"In your hair?"

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"The hibiscus!"

"She means the flower," Ace supplies hastily, facing the horrifying certainty that the questions could continue to circle around into eternity. "Why _is_ it in your hair, anyway?"

"Pigtails insisted," Lana humphs, " _Why_ is this an issue?"

The Marines falter in their steps. "Is 'Pigtails' a person?!"

"Careful," Ace warns. The shade of the castle looms over them, and he suppresses a shudder. The windows seem to look at him and find him lacking, reflecting the dark clouds gathering above them. "If people can't get on this island uncontrolled, then-"

"You be quiet, I'm still mad at you for burning my money. And someone tell me why for all mildewed blights I am being arrested, because if this is about a rotten flower, just pull it out, what the hell?"

"Madam," the Marine from her other side speaks up, "Did you just tell us to be quiet?"

"No," Lana says flatly. "Not you. I have very annoying imaginary friends." Ace shoots her a wounded and slightly offended look.

The main gate swallows them, uniforms nodding to their group and rubbing their arms. "Is this Pigtails–"

"Yes, can we get back to the mouldy flower?! Look, if you untie me, I'll even get rid of it myself!"

"We are dealing with two violations and identifications of resistance! The severity–"

The courtyard opens before them, greeting them with clouds above and hot-and-cold, tense air. Something else that greets them is a body thrown right into the group, through the two Marines in front, bowling Lana over and into her captors. Across the way two people are locked in furious combat, a little blue-haired girl half hidden behind another person whose face is in the process of rearranging its bone structure — a girl who brightens and yells: "Hey Ace! Lana! I found some friends!"

" _Portgas D. Ace!?"_

And in the following minutes, all hell breaks loose.

—

(Listen, Portgas D. Ace is aware that he is a very important person across all seas. He was a world-renowned pirate with a _five hundred fifty million beli_ bounty. His scheduled execution started a war that killed hundreds, maybe thousands, that destabilized the world order and started another wave of piracy. _He knows._ Countless encounters since have taught him very well exactly how many deaths are placed his shoulders, the shoulders of someone they really identify as Gol D. Ace. He has been recognized and ambushed enough times to settle into routine:)

—

His grin shows entirely too many teeth to be friendly. "Who's asking?"

"Commander da Costa," growls the taller of the two previously locked in combat, all wild black curls and gnashing teeth, " _And you are a dead man!"_

Ace laughs. _That's almost funny._ "True. What do you want?"

"It's you," the woman in front of Remi murmurs, steps forward, her face twisted in an entirely different manner than before, "You're the reason. Bluebird, why didn't you tell us?" Her hand strokes Remi's hair. "He's no friend to anyone here."

Something in Ace begins to boil, spill over, and he has the ghost trying to sneak up behind him hanging in his fist by the throat in a second. It's the one that flew into their group of escorting marines, he notes, regarding her with a smile he doesn't feel. "Hey there," he says pleasantly, vaguely registering Remi's protests in the background. The woman in his grip meets his gaze unflinchingly over his fingers, eyes full of distaste, as if he was just something nasty sticking to the sole of her shoe rather than in the process of strangling her. In the corner of his eyes, he watches da Costa seething, the woman with Remi shaking, da Costa's opponent stalking to her side, stony face in Ace's direction. All of them are closing in on him, slowly, loathing dripping from every pore.

"Want to explain your problem with me, or is it the usual?" He thinks he's heard it all, from blame for the war or the root of piracy, has listened to insults thrown at him and the names of his family cursed. Some of those will accelerate the situation more than others, and feeling the stabbing fear and rage permeating the air, just like down in the town, he suspects–

"The _Pirate Prince_ ," the woman in his grip purrs, "He finally graces us with his presence. Did you miss your mommy? Too bad, **the whore is not here."**

His vision goes red. Well then — _fast track it is._

—

—(He woke up on a battlefield, among rubble and the stench of blood still in the air, iron and dust on his lips, between his teeth – already knowing, with utter certainty, that he was dead. He'd known even before stumbling straight through the first of the marines who were working cleanup, shivering in an unnatural cold. What he didn't know was–

"What are you doing here." Ace looked up, almost flinched at the black hatred pouring from the eyes of the other ghost, his coat blazing with the letters for justice. "You do not get to be here, just like the other pirates. _But especially you."_

His tongue felt like lead. "My brother– Luffy."

"If you don't disappear right now, I and the others will do what we've done to the ones who woke before you and did not leave at once."

The air seemed to press against his head, his lungs. "What— who? I don't know—"

" _Leave."_

And Ace finally snapped, shook himself. "How?! I just died! Give me a second!"

The Marine smiled, utterly devoid of joy. "It's been days. You don't have it."

They did not care that Portgas D. Ace hadn't wanted a war, hadn't asked anyone to die for him. That every pirate knew what they signed up for, just as every marine should know the same. They and theirs were the ones having called for his execution in the first place, knowing full well what it could mean, had prepared for it, what _right_ did they have–

Ace died another six times before he figured out how to get off the god-forsaken island, and he never went down without a fight. Afterwards, he was quick to learn how to keep the ghosts from reforming for longer periods, what needed to be done to prevent them from trying again.

It is, after all, quite handy that he gets to keep his devil fruit in the afterlife.)—

—

Lana only saves herself from being incinerated in the inferno by _launching_ herself from the marines she'd bowled over back into the tunnel between gate and courtyard. The heat still scorches the soles of her shoes, singes her pants and turns the ropes binding her hands brittle enough that she can snap them apart. She only stops cursing up a storm when breathing becomes too difficult around the smell of burning flesh and smoke in her nose, tortured shrieks and cries ringing in her ears.

Her marines stumble after her in half determination, half disorientation. Lana doesn't know what they are feeling, but the tremors wracking her body and the pressure in the air, the feel of despair and hatred sinking its hooks into her skin– she can't imagine there isn't anything to be noticed, even for them. She's barely hanging on herself.

It might only be seconds, a minute until it stops, even though it feels like eons. When Lana gulps in a deep breath, her stomach turns; her head, already pounding all morning, seems to split into two for one agonizing second. Then she notices she's halfway climbed on and is gracelessly clinging to the female Marine who had been at the head of her escort. Every marine around them looks like they just walked through hell, not remembering the place, but still left with the feeling.

"That was _so much worse_ than usual," her crutch ventures shakily, "What _was_ that?"

Lana has only one appropriate response, and promptly pukes all over her uniform.

—

What Lana would like to tell them, once they pick up the flower that has fallen from her curls and 'Crutch', with vomit all over her, has stopped screeching, is that none of this was her idea.

She didn't want to leave her cosy hide-away island. She wasn't the one who suggested she needed a guardian angel or some rot like that. It wasn't her notion of fun to go challenge a storm and crash, and she had no preference for flowers anywhere on her person. She certainly hadn't proposed to host a violent barbecue, with every ghost she disagreed with featuring as the main course, though she could see the appeal.

Lana imagines herself saying, "So yeah, remember those imaginary friends i mentioned? It's all their bloody fault."

Instead she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, presses her other hand to her head and stomach in turns, and offers, "In my defense, my boat crashed here and I got knocked on the head a few times?"

They still take her backpack and lock her up, but she figures it was worth a try.

—

(There's unseen ashes in the air of the courtyard, moving against the wind and seeking one another. A little girl creeps along the walls, hurrying after streaks of red hair before they disappear through a door. The pirate surveys the black specks with a hard look, then follows.

The base is in uproar, marines of all ranks hurrying across the yard with quivering knees. Is this from the storm from last night? There's normally weird backlash from a storm, but this one came from out at sea, and has long cleared up – the Commander, up in his office, lets out a trembling breath. This was worse than usual, and even though the old lady insists it isn't anything from town, he can't help but think– and what about the stranger they brought in? A headache announces itself in his temples.)

—

Years ago, people died, and stayed. It was not a pleasant affair; deaths rarely are. A husband fought for his wife, a wife shielded her unprotected middle. A commander was betrayed, a lieutenant failed to save him. There's others, but they know better than to get into the middle of this.

Children were crying in the distance; they could do nothing else.

—

" _You bloody rotten canker! What the hell was that for?!"_ Lana's hands itch to wrap around his mouldy neck. "Never even mind why! Have you thought that I almost got nice and crispy, too?!"

"Sorry," Firefly says, entirely unrepentant. "Desperate measures. If they're like that, it usually doesn't help to talk to them."

She growls. "I don't care! Don't do it when I'm around! Are you listening to me? There almost wasn't a mildewed 'medium' for you anym–" she gags, but there's nothing to heave up than dry air. "God, my head hurts."

"Maybe they have ginger tea," Pigtails pipes up for the first time, her voice hesitant. "Or maybe toothed moss or yellowroot grows here? Should I massage your head? I can do it like Mum always did when I felt sick."

Lana sinks to the floor in the middle of her cell, leaning her forehead against her knees, arms locked around her legs. "Thanks for the offer, kid. It's okay."

Still, after a moment, she feels the child kneeling beside her and sliding cool fingers into her hair. Lana tries to concentrate on the pressure, think about the fire, flowers and the last time she hit her head this hard and if she puked on someone important then, too – but thoughts are trickling through her fingers like water. The hot-and-cold shivers and pressure are still around, like they've sunken into every stone in every corner of the building, seeping into the very mark of her bones. Something is squeezing her chest, her eyes, and she knows she would cry if she wasn't sure, somehow, that this grief is not her own. The salty taste of tears and the scent of dried flowers still linger. She has no idea how much time passes that way.

"Two of them were nice," Pigtails says after a long while. She sounds brittle. "I just wanted to explore the castle, and they found me and told me it's not safe here. I didn't feel safe here before, but I felt safe with them."

Lana keeps silent. What does it matter who they were? Their scattered ashes would reform just the same. Firefly sits somewhere to her other side, cross-legged and quiet, and Lana notices for the first time that she's sitting between him and the kid, forming a human barrier.

"Rosa said that something terrible happened a long time ago, and that she and her husband Corin have been 'trying to get justice' since," the kid tells them, in a manner that seems parroted. "I think the other two did the terrible thing. Or maybe they were two of the ones doing the terrible thing. I think Rosa and Corin died then. Tens of years ago." She pauses, then continues pressing and moving shaking fingers through Lana's short curls. "They were so angry. And sad. Could you feel how sad they were?"

"The whole town is sad, Remi," Firefly replies softly. "I–"

"You didn't have to do that!" the girl burst out, sniffling, "Why did you do that? It was terrible! I'm scared of you now! I don't _like_ being scared!"

Firefly breathes out. He might be sighing, he might look remorseful, but Lana still has her face pressed against her knees, counting her own breaths. "They would not listen. They'll be back. Just like they have been back for the tens of years they've been dead. Remi, I– I'm sorry you had to see that."

"But you aren't sorry that you did it!" the kid cries. "You–"

"So much noise," Lana mumbles into her knees, interrupting Pigtail's hysteria, "For things gone for decades. I'm _not_ gone, and apparently in deep shit. Can we focus on that?"

"What a succinct summary of your situation, my girl," comes a worn smoky voice from above, together with the sound of a key fighting against metal echoing against stone. "Though you _should_ care about all that noise from tens of years ago. You maneuvered yourself right into the middle of it."

Lana slowly raises her head and stares.

"You can call me Lady D," the old woman says, flower in her hair, "and I expect a thank you later, for bailing you out."

—

( _Flowergirl_ , they used to call her, but now she takes care of her people with steel in her spine and a smile on her face. Her laugh rings just as loud as that of a younger woman, lost in history and still echoing from the sea. She's been here for a long time, long enough to know how things used to be — there is no tragedy that could break her, because she has met them all and bared her teeth. Her hands are full of flowers and she will bind them together in new ways every bloom, because she knows – things have never been how they used to be.)

—

This Lady D still possesses a striking beauty, even in her old age, short silver hair streaked with white. A violently pink, five-petaled flower, like the kind Pigtails had stuck into Lana's curls, is clipped behind her right ear and glowing defiantly. Lines of laughter and grief, of countless stories, have carved her face to perfection around sharp, gleaming eyes reminiscent of Firefly's flames. Whenever they pass a light, Lana can see the freckles dotting her skin, admire the laugh edged into the corners of her mouth.

The whole way back to town, Lana focuses on the flowing folds of the lady's colourful dress, trying not to lean on Pigtails too much whenever she feels like the ground is moving. The moon is bright and almost full in the sky, lighting their way through the clouds. Was she really in the cell the whole afternoon into the night? Her last and only meal in two days has probably already been scrubbed off the unfortunate Crutch. But just thinking of food makes Lana want to throw up again, the smell of burning bodies still crawling up her nose.

She attempts to feel some sort of surprise when she finds herself dropped into a chair back at a table in the tavern which she had been dragged out of in the first place, but she can't muster the effort. There's a glass of water in front of her the next second. A gentle warmth, one that threatens to press on her stomach again, tells her that Firefly has settled next to her. Pigtails hovers, then drops onto the floor on her other side and puts her arms and face into Lana's lap. Lana pats her hair a few times without looking down. The tavern, she registers with tired eyes, is empty but for them.

"I'd offer you the divine palm wine of this place," Lady D asserts, "but considering that head wound, I suppose I better not. Jack, dear, would you bring the girl an ice pack?"

"Is she going to pay for her food?" comes the muffled reply from someone whose voice Lana vaguely matches to the strawberry-blonde barman from earlier.

"Oh, just put it on my tab," Lady D calls back irritably from somewhere behind Lana, "They're keeping her things until they figure out her crime."

" _You never pay your tab!"_

"Young man, I think a lifetime of labour–"

"Put a sock in it!"

"Jaune! Get the girl an ice pack, please?"

"Jaune, _don't you dare!"_

Lana takes careful sips of water and doesn't even notice someone coming until glorious, soothing cold is pressed against the back of her head. "Thanks," she whispers, grasping to hold it herself. She pillows her face onto an arm and secures the ice pack by slinging her other arm over it. Voices drift in and out of focus. Once, she makes a valiant attempt to listen, only they speak of flowers and dimes and cracks in the wall, and Lana can't make sense of any of it.

What a rotten day, she thinks, and falls asleep, her ghosts and those of a different kind keeping her company.

—

(This is not a town of hospitality, but a barlady would sling the arms of a stranger —lighter than expected, but she can't see the ghost helping them along— over her shoulders and put her into a bed. She would peel back the wrappings on and wash bruised fingers, brush back curly red hair and tie a poultice mixed with herbs, made by a grumbling brother, to the stranger's wound – then sit there and look around the room in thought, listening to her sleep until reassured.

She thinks that some rocks might be overturning, some pebbles dropped into a pool of water. The beds have not been used by strangers for some time, a memory holding an island hostage.)

—

Ace spends the night on the floor, his back leaning against the bed and facing the window. The kid is snuggled into Lana's side, pretending to sleep, even though they both know she can't.

"I am sorry," Ace says into the silence. "I don't like doing– I'm not proud of it. It's terrible, you're right, kid."

The quiet stretches, Lana's deep and regular breaths are the only sound, assuring them that she's fine. He almost think there won't be an answer, until a quiet voice ventures, "Why did you do it?"

"I'm," Ace hesitates, then sighs. "I'm a very famous pirate who died in a war some time ago. A lot of ghosts think their deaths and others' are my fault. They are so angry and hate me so much that– in a nutshell, they do to me what I did to them. Me doing it first stops them from trying it again."

"Is it?" Remi asks, cautious. "Your fault, I mean."

"No." It isn't. He can't– he isn't responsible for other people's choices. If they were there, then they knew what they signed up for. He never– he's not responsible for goddamn _piracy_. Isn't that the whole idea of being a pirate — that you only have yourself to answer both for and to?

Remi shuffles around and Ace turns his head to see her looking at him in the darkness. "Then why do they blame you?"

His breath hitches, because it all comes down to one thing. He tries to smile. "Because the man that– my f–" he grimaces, but he has to, or Remi won't understand what he means, "because my father was a very bad, very famous pirate, and a lot of people hated him and are out for revenge for the things he did and caused. I'm the son of a monster, so I'm a monster."

Remi hums and settles back in. "That's silly."

"What is?"

"Hating you because of your dad. Burning Rosa and Corin and the others was all _you_ and still horrible. Everyone's their own person. Hating you for your dad is stupid."

She doesn't understand. Ace winces, disappointment clogging his throat. He turns his head back around and looks out the window, watching the moon. _He's not my dad._ "Is it really?"

The night breathes, and doesn't respond.

—

(It went like this: Boy meets death. No matter the effort, or the pain, or the complications surrounding his very existence: It's that simple, and maybe that inescapable. There's everything tragic about it, and that should've been the end of it. Normally. People have better things to do than hunt down the holes in their own stories.

Mostly.)

—

Consider the way we tell children of spirits – watching over us, remembering, chastising. A draft from nowhere, something that might feel like a warm embrace, sometimes a whisper; we think it's the people we lost, because we want them to be. So what are spirits, other than remnants full of memory?

Years ago, people died, and stayed — nobody really gets a say in the matter. But these ones here, they fancied to know exactly why, to have all the right reasons; how could they _not_ , considering the circumstances they died in, just who was slaughtered (and had to die)? They still hear the memory of helpless, desperate cries (they listen to the price of justice), the sound of children weeping (feel the knife in the back). They will not forgive, and they will not forget, because what are they, other than what they had been? They will not stop until they've seen justice.

People here in the streets shiver, sometimes. They feel their hearts in their throats, choke up, remember old wounds, hearts breaking all over again. Sometimes it's stronger than others. Sometimes their pain turns to liquid, raging fury, and cracks appear in the wall as if agreeing. There's a tragedy that will not be forgotten, that does not seem to heal. Tensions are high because they were once high, and have been stoked by something since — just as laughter has sunk into the very soil, so has the sorrow. The sky clouds over and gales shake the palm trees, claw and tear at roof tiles and anchored boats, before falling silent.

The sun rises over old sorrow and old pain, each day anew.

(A little girl had called forth a storm from a small cemetery, a door closed on its own, a pirate stepped through a barman and caused him to shudder. Now a whole town has been on edge for decades, a base full of uniformed sailors is ready to jump at every provocation.

What is there more powerful than a memory?)

—

"Okay, girlfriend!" The barlady plops into the seat opposite Lana with no fanfare in the morning, dropping a plate of scrambled eggs, rice and sausage slices in front of Lana in the process. The woman has the same wiry frame as Ace has observed on Jack, the barman – the same big, brown eyes and the same shade of yellow with those soft red undertones in her hair; though her own, long tresses are loosely tied in a side ponytail, shadowing parts of her face. A hibiscus is perched behind her left ear, this one pink and yellow. "Being locked up for "suspicious behavior" is less sexy than it sounds, né? Had a nice chat with the seagulls?"

Without conscious thought, Ace slides onto the bench beside Lana, who sighs with the air of the long-suffering. "Will you, or _anyone_ , please explain what this is about and why I don't have my backpack? What in all blights is up with the flower?" She gestures to the barlady, "You seem to wear it just fine?"

"Oh, it's forbidden to wear them," the other woman grins like she eats rules for breakfast. "Because this place has History, with capital H." She leans over, hair trailing over the tabletop, glinting golden in the morning light. "Portgas D. Ace was born here."

Ace chokes. Stares at her. _What._

Lana frowns. "Wait, why does that name seem familiar?"

"It's mine, you moron." Ace's voice comes out strangled. He belatedly remembers to roll his eyes.

"Oh," Lana spears some eggs with her fork. "Huh."

"He was hot," the woman confides in her cheerfully.

Lana raises an eyebrow. "Literally."

Ace feels himself go pink with the woman's snort of laughter. He feels himself go numb. ' _Something terrible happened a long time ago',_ Remi's voice relays in his head, echoing, ' _tens of years ago. I think the other two were ones doing the terrible thing.'_ The ghost in his memory sneers, not even attempting to get out of his grip. ' _He finally graces us with his presence. Did you miss your mommy?'_

The barlady opposite them stretches. Her back pops. "Well, before we start– I don't think we've been introduced! You are?"

 _Idiot,_ he thinks. _I'm an idiot._

"Just," Lana flaps her hand around, "Call me Lana." _We're both idiots._

"Alright, Lana! Dig in, because my name is Portgas Jaune, and this is the story of my fabulous family and a once-martyr called Portgas D. Rouge," Jaune's smile disappears. "And if you're anywhere near halfway decent, you will not feel hungry anymore after hearing it."

—

Flowers bloom, a woman laughs, the sea whispers and washes up flotsam. The sun rises, day and day again, and does not care how things used to be.

—

_tbc in Part II.II_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … you didn't think I would set this story off in South Blue and not touch this particular can of worms, did you?
> 
>  
> 
> characters introduced:
> 
>  
> 
>  **Jack and Jaune** , alive, owners of the bar 'Twelve Palms and A Fork', both in possession of shining, strawberry-blonde hair.
> 
>  **Lady D** , alive, mysterious elderly matriarch, whose voice seems to hold quite a sway.
> 
>  **'Torres'** , alive, chief of the local constabulary. Should probably show more respect.
> 
>  **Da Costa** , spirit, and his dead female comrade, who know exactly who Portgas D. Ace is and were locked in combat with
> 
>  **Rosa and Corin** , spirits, who apparently made a good impression on little Remi.
> 
> honorable mention:
> 
>  **'Crutch'** , alive, Ensign of the Marines, name as of yet unknown. Had to clean vomit off herself.
> 
>  **Commander Fidel** , alive, Commander of the local Marine Base, probably needs some sleep.
> 
> hope you enjoyed the kick-off into the second arc! I was going to wait with posting it till i finished the next chapter, but alas, life is kicking my butt and it's been longer than expected. I shall remain very self-conscious about characterization in the meantime. /blows kisses


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